


Gone Viral

by witchwrites



Category: Undertale (Video Game)
Genre: AFAB reader - Freeform, Angst, Cuddling & Snuggling, Fluff, Friends to Lovers, Interspecies Awkwardness, Minor Original Character(s), Other, Porn Watching, Post-Undertale Pacifist Route, Reader Is Not Frisk (Undertale), Reader-Insert, Slow Burn, Social Media, Texting, Vaginal Fingering
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-10-25
Updated: 2018-12-17
Packaged: 2019-08-07 06:25:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 13
Words: 57,632
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16403018
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/witchwrites/pseuds/witchwrites
Summary: Monsters emerging from a mountain is already a big surprise, but getting an offer to join the creative team of the biggest social media celebrity from the Underground is an even bigger one. You have the technical skills to do the job, but the closer you get to your skeleton coworker, the more you worry your social skills might be lacking.At least you have the same taste in jokes.(rating recently changed)





	1. Chapter 1

You don’t watch the news.

You never really have. You get your information through the grapevine, through articles sent to you by friends over Facebook, through podcasts. Maybe that’s how you ended up working in the creative department at a clickbait-y psuedo-news website and social media company. Or maybe you just shouldn’t have expected anything different when you decided to major in Digital Communications.

So, you don’t hear about the monsters until you get to work the morning after it happens.

You greedily gulp down cheap coffee as you shove your bag underneath your cubicle, completely ignoring the flurry of people around you, all talking over each other and pointing to things on their screens. Your coworker pokes her head over the side of her cubicle and hollers at you, “Oh my god, did you HEAR?!”

You straighten out your outfit and take a seat in your uncomfortable rolling chair. “No, what happened?” It could literally be anything at all. The last time the office got in this much of a tizzy, it was just because their new YouTube series about testing bad life hacks had gone viral.

She shakes her head, her sharp heels clacking on the marble flooring as she scurries over, whipping out her phone and tapping away on the screen. “No, I can’t even DESCRIBE it, you have to SEE.”

She shoves her phone in your face as a video plays. You barely let her get past the ten second mark.

“Oh, come on, this is clearly fake,” you say, watching the camera zoom in on blurry but distinctly inhuman figures coming down the side of a mountain as a local news network’s logo slides to the corner of the screen to reveal the headline, “UNDERGROUND MUTANT INHABITANTS MAKE FIRST CONTACT.”

“It’s real!” she insists, backing out of the video to tap on a different one.

“It’s someone screwing around in Adobe After Effects,” you say, taking another sip of coffee.

She huffs and puts a hand on her hip as she shoves the screen up to your face again. This time it’s what appears to be  _ your _ state’s governor standing at a podium, talking about  _ monsters emerging from a mountain _ just outside of  _ your  _ city’s limits.

You choke on your coffee and immediately spill some of it on your white shirt.

* * *

 

You can barely keep up with the flurry of sociopolitical news. One day they release the first polls on public opinions on the monsters, and the next there’s talk of extending the monsters citizenship as a peace offering. In general, the public response was shockingly positive.  Or perhaps it wasn’t all that shocking - pop culture is filled with depictions of aliens and monsters as sympathetic allies of humanity, after all.

There are, of course, dissenters. It didn’t take long for extremist groups to form, insisting that the monsters be forced out of the country or even killed, and that the Underground they came from be reburied. You tried not to pay too much attention to it and hoped that their voices are drowned out by the positivity coming from everyone else.

You watched news clips on Youtube every night, voraciously consuming everything you could even though you didn’t fully understand the complexities of some of the issues, like whether or not the Underground should be considered its own nation. You weren’t ashamed to admit you had a very personal interest in it. You’ve always loved monsters and now they were  _ real _ , and some of them had taken up residence  _ here _ , in  _ your _ city. They were so diverse, too! You wondered just how diverse they could get, or how they ended up in so many different shapes and sizes. 

Soon they start establishing a social media presence. Monsters, it turned out, could be incredibly bombastic creatures. They were all over Twitter, with even the more mundane personalities racking up hundreds of thousands of followers.

A monster-designed robot named Mettaton - apparently a celebrity among monsters - wasted no time establishing himself as a powerhouse and a social media superstar. He started with just a Facebook and a Twitter, but apparently once he heard about YouTube he was blasting his way to becoming the next big internet influencer.

He made tons of video content, more than any one person could produce alone, so it quickly became obvious that he had some kind of team behind him even before the crew started showing up on camera. His YouTube mostly hosted a slew of fashion-oriented content and interviews with prominent figures in the monster community. Over time he even began roping in other content creators under his own brand. His biggest draw, though, were his livestreams.

His streams had insane production value, as, evidently, monster currency was made of solid gold and Mettaton was already reasonably wealthy even before becoming a star among humans. It also helped that, in addition to his over the top personality and budget, he had a recurring cast of his real life friends that would co-host and do special segments. A typical Mettaton stream was recorded on a set not unlike that of a talk show, and over the course of about an hour, the viewer would be bombarded with flashy graphics, pop culture news, seemingly impromptu skits, original music, and silly games. The variety of content combined with the wild personalities of the monsters involved made his streams more popular and widely watched than even some primetime television shows.

Before long, he had the funds to launch his own website to go along with his increasing number of offshoot YouTube channels, and enough demand from the public to sustain it all. People were hungry to see more monsters. People wanted them in the spotlight. People wanted to idolize them.

* * *

 

You sink down further into your chair as the Monday morning content brainstorm meeting continues to devolve into an exercise in plagiarism. You struggle not to roll your eyes as someone suggests a Mettaton inspired makeup tutorial. You idly tap your pen against your notepad as someone else reluctantly agrees to make yet another “Top Mettaton Livestream Moments” listacle. 

It’d been like this for a while now. Struggling influencers and companies like yours started emulating Mettaton’s brand and content to drum up more views and clicks. You glance down at the few notes you’ve scribbled down so far and realize, drearily, that you’re going to be spending another week basically ripping off Mettaton’s thumbnails and editing footage with twenty thousand jump cuts to make it seem more exciting.

Mettaton doesn’t even use jump cuts. He’s primarily a livestreamer, for fuck’s sake. His livestreams are exciting because he does exciting, wild things. Some hack probably tried to emulate the feel of a Mettaton stream by just cutting all the action in their video together and it got a lot of views, and then everyone ripped off  _ that  _ video, so now people think that’s Mettaton’s style when it’s totally not.

God, you’re so sick of fucking jump cuts. You tune out someone droning on about what color schemes everyone should be using in the thumbnails and scribble furiously and aimlessly in your notepad instead.

Your company’s brand had never been innovative, but increasingly it was becoming a hollow shell of content regurgitation. You’d give anything to work on something authentic for once.

Your phone buzzes in your pocket and you jolt up. The creative director barely spares you a glance as he nods and waves you out of the room before turning back to the whiteboard and writing more illegible notes.

You step out of the conference room and answer your phone.

A lilting, staticky voice on the other end of the line says your name and asks if they’ve got the right number.

“Um, yeah?” you answer, confused. You’re in the habit of aggressively putting yourself on do not call lists, so you don’t know why you’d be getting a call from a number you don’t recognize. “Who’s this?”

“This is the fabulous Mettaton. Maybe you’ve heard of me?”

You blanch and audibly gasp.

You hear him stifle a laugh. “That sounds like a yes. Is now a good time?”

“Yeah, sure, but, uh, sorry, wh - how’d you get my number again?” You glance around you, double checking that none of your coworkers are eavesdropping. 

“Don’t worry about it,” he insists. “I’ll cut to the chase - my brand is blowing up and I’m bigger than ever. I desperately need staff, darling, and I hear you’re working for my competition,” he practically coos into the phone. “How about you come work for me instead?”

Later, he emails you a job offer with a sizable increase in pay compared to your current position, as though there was any chance of you telling him no regardless.

* * *

 

It turns out Mettaton purchased a huge swath of land, some of which he donated to house royal research labs for monsters on the surface, and some which was a filming studio and creative office. You’re not exactly sure what “royal research” entails, or why the king of the monsters was fine with setting up labs next to a studio, but you figure it only seems weird to you because of cultural differences or something.

Rolling up to the lot on your first day is a little intimidating. Only part of the massive, sprawling, multistory building is actually your place of work, but it still looms over you as you quickly park and head inside. 

There’s a little receptionist area where you’re greeted by a giant, pink, bipedal rabbit. She asks for your name, and when you give it to her - stuttering a little, thrown off by being greeted by a living Lisa Frank drawing - she perks up immediately.

“Ohhh, you’re a little early!” she says, cheerfully. “Mettaton’s not here yet, let me take you to your desk!”

She leads you to an elevator and drops you off on the second floor in a large, open room with a series of spacious cubicles set up. A couple people - both monsters and humans - look up from their computers and wave. 

“I think he said you should set up in the corner, over by the window,” she says, gesturing to the desk. “You can wait there ‘til he gets here!”

You nod and drop your stuff on the desk, and she hurries off back to the lobby.

Your deskmate, a human woman with long, silky, black hair, rolls her chair out far enough to see around the divider. “Psst, hey,” she whispers, and suddenly it strikes you that it’s pretty quiet in the office.

“Hi,” you say, politely, a little startled by how pretty she is. She’s got big eyes framed with light makeup and a petite little nose. She extends one slender hand in your direction.

“I’m Yves,” she says, brightly. You shake her hand and she absolutely crushes it in her grip with strength you weren’t expecting based on her lithe frame. “I do Outfit of the Day videos and fashion news. Lemme guess, Mettaton poached you from another company, right?”

It doesn’t surprise you at all that she does fashion content. Her outfit is casually trendy in a way you could only dream of achieving. You tell her your name and ask, “How’d you know he poached me?”

“Basically all the humans who work here are from a big company,” she explains, swivelling her chair back and forth a little. “And most of the monsters are friends of his who just work here part time. What do you do, what’s your thing?”

“Um,” you start, “I’m a behind the scenes sort of person. I did mostly video and image editing for, y’know, the bigger guys at my last job, but I think Mettaton wants me to take, um, more of an active role?”

She nods emphatically. She’s about to say something else, but is abruptly interrupted by Mettaton bursting through the doors with a deafening, delighted yell. Yves quietly rolls back into her cubicle.

“ _ Thank goodness you’re here!  _ So wonderful to finally meet you in person!” he shouts. It’s a little eerie to see him in person and not on your computer screen. He’s blindingly hot pink under the fluorescent lighting and the way his face moves is weird, because the texture is like he’s made of metal - of course he is, he’s a robot - but it stretches and moves like skin.

He rushes at you, long, segmented arms outstretched, with what looks like two living skeletons of wildly varied heights trailing behind him. One of them is dressed more or less normally aside from a crop top in same shade as Mettaton’s pink parts. The other, bizarrely, is wearing a labcoat, a tshirt, basketball shorts, and fuzzy pink slippers. Their eye sockets are almost eerier than Mettaton’s face - they’re pitch black with little glowing lights set somewhere deep back in their skulls.

You recoil at the robot hurtling in your direction and Mettaton stops short. “Oh, you poor dear, you must be very overwhelmed meeting a celebrity for the first time.” He gives you a sympathetic look briefly before rapidly shifting to a stern expression. “Well, I’m afraid there’s no time to be starstruck, I have an  _ emergency _ and you’re here to fix it.” He gestures to the shorter skeleton, who is grinning widely and looking pretty pleased. “We’ve got a show  _ TONIGHT _ and Sans has made the most  _ AWFUL _ graphics for his segment and I  _ CAN’T _ show them to the public.”

The taller skeleton stares down at the shorter one with a critical look, his bony brow furrowed and his toothy mouth upturned into a frown. “They really are terrible, Sans!” he says, a little shrilly. You try not to stare too much, but you do look long enough to see that their bone shifts and pulls to make expressions. It looks hard, but not rock hard like real bone, so they must be made out of something else.

“It’s not his fault,” Mettaton says, raising a hand to his face dramatically. “Tragically, it’s just not his forte. That’s why I keep hiring creatives, you know.” He turns back to you. “I’ve sent you what Sans has put together so far so you can get a feel for what we need. I’m sorry to thrust you right into the fire on your first day, but I trust that you’re capable. Your email is set up, isn’t it?” He turns again suddenly, hollering into the chasm of the giant room. “JAMES? IS OUR NEW FRIEND’S EMAIL SET UP?”

You hear a rolling chair clatter in the distance and someone calls back with a meek, “Yessir!”

“Oh, good,” says Mettaton. “Here, open up your email client and you’ll see exactly what I mean.”

It takes a few minutes to download all the files Mettaton had forwarded to you, as he’d forwarded not only the video but individual files of all the images and assets within the video. Soon enough you’re staring at what seems to be a crudely made animation for the introduction of a science-y fun facts segment for Mettaton’s stream, judging solely from the video file named “funsciencefacts1.” The two skeletons and the robot cluster around behind your chair as you hit play.

You’re immediately greeted by an image of some kind of 3D rendering of a molecule on a black background, while a terrible MS Paint doodle of the short skeleton’s face pops up, then disappears, then pops up again in a slightly different location in a way that could be either accidental or intentional. Your speakers nearly blow out as a deep, monotone voice reads the title as it slowly slides into view - “sans’s science second,” written in all lowercase in Comic Sans. A jerkily animated starwipe reveals the words “it’s molecool” written underneath the molecule picture. The whole thing suddenly distorts as though it’s been saved as a low-res .jpeg multiple times before the short video abruptly ends.

You snort loudly. In your peripheral vision, you see Sans’s grin widen a little.

“You see?” says Mettaton, sounding scandalized. “Just awful.”

“You’re kidding, right?” You hit the mute button on your keyboard before playing the video again. “This is hilarious. If you hit people with this right after a super dramatic, high production segment, they’ll absolutely lose it. There’s some stuff we could do to give it more oomph, I guess, but the shittiness is part of the gag, right? You really want to change it completely?” you ask, turning in your chair to face him properly.

Mettaton stares back at you with his mouth agape. The taller skeleton looks surprised, too.

“Are you  _ disagreeing _ with me?” Mettaton asks, his voice hushed.

Your face immediately grows warm as you flush. What the fuck were you thinking, disagreeing with your direct boss on your first fucking day? “Oh, God, I’m sorry, I -”

“Thank GOODNESS I’ve finally found someone with the chutzpah to tell me what they actually think!” he shouts, cutting you off and glancing around at the other cubicles pointedly before looking back at your screen to watch the video again. “I suppose I see what you mean, about the contrast of it making for a good joke.” He sighs, resigned. “Well, if we’re going to do that, we should at least lean into it. Would you please work with Sans on the rest of his segment, too? Make sure it’s up to snuff?” 

You nod.

Mettaton looks at Sans, addressing him this time. “I know you’re busy with whatever the King has you working on, but can you spare some more time?”

“Heh. Sure,” he says, and immediately you recognize his deep voice as the one from the video. “I’d hate  _ tibia _ bummer and ruin tonight’s stream.”

You choke down a laugh, trying to stay serious. Sans glances at you, grin widening again. He only seems to have the one facial expression, but somehow it’s still obvious that he’s pleased that you think he’s funny.

“Hm,” replies Mettaton, unamused, and then he waves a hand dismissively. “Well, if it goes over poorly, we’ll just blame you anyway. We certainly can’t be putting all the pressure on our new friend on their first day. Let’s all meet up later in the conference room to go over what you have before the show - say, 3 PM?”

You and the skeletons nod your heads.

“Excellent,” he says, already walking away. “Nice meeting you, darling, I expect great things from you!”

The taller skeleton watches Mettaton leave for a moment before looking back to you. He speaks loudly and with a certain affect that almost makes him sound like he’s acting in a play. “I’m sorry! I forgot to introduce myself! Incredibly rude of me! I’m Papyrus, Sans’s brother.” He extends a gloved hand for you to shake. “I help with planning and setting up a lot of the games and puzzles for the streams. I’m sure you’ve seen them.”

You have. Wacky, game show-like segments are a staple of Mettaton’s streams and part of why he’s so popular. Your favorite of the ones you’ve seen was a series of panels installed into the floor of the studio that two contestants had to stomp on in time with a beat while also crossing from one side to the other, like some kind of demented, mobile game of Dance Dance Revolution.

“Oh, I love those, they’re so creative,” you tell him. “You must be pretty talented.”

Papyrus swells with pride. “Thank you! I am!”

“He is,” says the shorter skeleton, earnestly. “I’m Sans, by the way.”

You grin. “I figured. It’s nice to meet you guys.”

“Well, I have to get going!” announces Papyrus, before leaning in and whispering conspiratorially to you. “Let me know if Sans is slacking too much and not being helpful and I’ll come scold him for you.”

With that, Papyrus makes his leave and you’re left with just Sans standing awkwardly next to your desk.

“Sooo,” you start, “um, what’s your segment going to be like?”

Sans’s expression shifts to something other than sheer amusement for the first time. Now he looks a little sheepish, although he’s still grinning. “Uh. I was going to have it last for a literal second.”

You can’t stop yourself from smiling again as you rest your elbow on your desk and your head in your hand. “Like, actually one second?”

“Yeah. You know, cut to me standing next to a baking soda volcano going off, and all I say is ‘volcanoes erupt’ and then cut back to the main stage. Technically a science fact.” He shrugs, not bothering to remove his hands from the pockets of his lab coat. “Sorry. If I’d known MTT was gonna dump me on the new guy, I would’ve come up with something better. You got the short end of the stick, getting stuck with a lazybones like me.”

You bury your face in your hands and laugh. Once your giggles subside, you say, “I kind of love that. But I’m not so sure Mettaton will. Maybe, um, we can workshop it a little?”

The lights in Sans’s empty sockets seem to glimmer with interest. “Whatcha got in mind?”

“I think it just needs a bigger punchline,” you say, scrambling for something to draw on to help communicate what you’re going to say. “What if…”

* * *

 

Sans and you spend the better part of two hours working on the idea, before he says he’s satisfied and that he’s got something else to do and wanders off. You end up spending your lunch break with Yves, who seems excited to have a new cubicle neighbor. She’s naturally chatty, filling you in on the office dynamics so quickly that you can’t even keep up. 

“I think a lot of people are intimidated by Mettaton and the monsters who work with him,” she tells you. “Not because they’re monsters, but because Mettaton has such a big personality and most of the monsters are his real, actual friends, you know? No one wants to step on their toes, so they all turn into yes men. That’s why he really liked that you were honest about the thing this morning.”

“To be honest, I’m intimidated too,” you confess. “I really thought he was going to blow up at me when I disagreed with him.”

“He wouldn’t do that,” she says, shaking her head emphatically. “Most people don’t expect him to take criticism because he’s a total egomaniac, but he actually takes it super well because his confidence makes him totally unflappable. Trust me, I probably work with him one on one more than anyone else because he’s so invested in our fashion content, and he’s never been mean to me. Personally invasive, maybe, but not deliberately mean.”

“Uh - what do you mean by invasive?” you ask, anxiously.

She rolls her eyes and smiles as though recalling the antics of a rambunctious child. “Oh, you know,” she says, “he just, like, loves to get everyone involved in the production. It’s hard to work here without becoming part of the show in some capacity. The worst thing he’s done is try to orchestrate a matchmaking thing with some of the employees. He spent like half a stream once doing a dating show, like the ones that were on MTV like a decade or two ago? It’s silly.”

“Silly” isn’t exactly how you’d describe it - more like absolutely terrifying - but you don’t comment on it further.

* * *

 

Sans drops by your desk a little after your lunch break and leads you to some sort of arts ‘n’ crafts room where employees have the space and resources to make props for video content. He’s got a working model volcano set up already, but it needs adjustments now that the plan has changed.

You’re actually kind of surprised the supplies you need are readily available, considering how outrageous your plan is. Sans lets you do the bulk of the work, blatantly slacking off and nodding off at the table halfway through. You let it slide, since he made the volcano to begin with.

Later, you and Sans carefully carry the volcano to the conference room and pitch the science segment idea to Mettaton. Papyrus is there, too, but you get the impression that he’s just there because he wants to be and not because he has any decision making power. Sans lets you do most of the talking, content to stand to the side and nod occasionally as you flip through quick sketches of how the segment should go. 

You’re not used to taking such an active role in content creation. You’re usually brought in after everything is planned out and you just polish it and tie everything together. It’s nerve wracking, but you also can’t say you aren’t excited if this is what your new job is actually going to be like. 

Mettaton stares at you with wide eyes once you’re done. “Wow,” he breathes, then pauses to think. After a moment, he says, “Look, I won’t pretend I completely understand what you’re doing here, but it’s hard to deny that this particular… style… has an appeal, and I love the dramatic ending you've come up with. It’s a potential clip for the stream highlights channel, if nothing else. Go ahead and send the video file to the film crew and brief them on what they need to do.”

You’re a little bit dumbfounded, since you’d gone kind of overboard with the idea and expected him to tell you tone it down a little. “Are you concerned at all about, um, the potential destruction of property?” you ask.

Mettaton throws his head back and exclaims, “Ha! Oh, sweetheart, we’ve done so much worse on that stage. Anything on set is replaceable.”

* * *

 

Walking onto the livestream set is a little overwhelming.

The stage is massive, large enough that there’s several camera setups to cover the whole thing and cut between shots that focus on different parts of it. It looks a lot like photos you’ve seen of actual television show sets. After you relay instructions to the camera and AV crew, you stand around awkwardly for a moment, not sure if you should stay and see it through or go back to your desk.

Papyrus comes up behind you, startling you a little.

“You can stay on set, you know! Lots of people like to stick around and watch their hard work pay off,” he says, patting you on the shoulder reassuringly. He nods over to a group of people, both humans and monsters, standing around or sitting on folding chairs in the back of the room behind all the cameras and equipment. They’re mostly clustered around a set of screens, one of which is showing the livestream and the live chat as it appears on YouTube, with the “Stream starting soon!” graphic displayed. You recognize Yves in the crowd and thank Papyrus before moseying on over. Shortly after, Mettaton and some other monsters start getting into place on the stage and the crew signals for any onlookers to be quiet.

You only halfway pay attention to the beginning of the stream. It’s more of the stuff you’ve come to expect from Mettaton - he does a brief interview with a popular Twitter comedian, then forces an aquatic looking monster to do a series of physical challenges that involve a lot of lifting things and flashing lights.

As the bit winds down, you start to get antsy. You glance off to the side of the large stage, where Sans is set up for his part. You must look as anxious as you feel because he shoots you a sympathetic look before winking and sending you a thumbs up.

“Before we take our regularly scheduled musical break,” Mettaton says, facing the camera directly. “We have a special new segment!”

The stream abruptly cuts to Sans’s intro sequence. It’s mostly unchanged from how it was this morning - the only edits you made were inserting a cheesy jingle as the starwipe moves across the screen and blowing out Sans’s audio so it sounds like he’s saying the title about an millimeter away from the microphone. You hear a few of the people around you stifle snickers. You glance at the screen showing the stream on YouTube, and notice the live chat going absolutely nuts.

The cameras cut again to Sans’s setup, where he’s got a giant, low-res printout of a weather doppler behind him, and the newly improved volcano model on the table in front of him, angled to hide the hole you’d cut into the back of it. He’s got a cup of vinegar in one hand.

“Hey kids,” he says, already sounding like he might crack and start laughing. “Today we’re gonna learn how a volcano erupts. When magma starts churnin’ under the earth’s surface…”

He trails off, dumping the vinegar into the volcano and letting the baking soda solution start to bubble up.

Then, with his other hand and a lighter, he surreptitiously ignites the small fireworks hidden underneath the paper mache.

The vinegar and baking soda are contained within a metal cup towards the top of the volcano, so the paper mache almost immediately catches aflame and sparks start bursting through the surface of the model. Sans, to his credit, does a terrific job of looking freaked out while still maintaining his massive grin.

“Uh,” he says, “That’s not supposed to -”

He’s cut off by a particularly vicious burst of sparks spewing out across the table as he jolts backwards.

The AV crew cuts the shot just in time, holding it on a still frame of a blurry Sans grinning and fleeing from the exploding volcano while playing a beep from a sound file you’d provided them, before switching briefly to a image you’d made with the text “TECHNICAL DIFFICULTIES PLEASE STAND BY” plastered on an old school television set. 

Meanwhile on set, Papyrus rushes forward with a fire extinguisher and most of the group around you erupts into laughter and exclamations of “holy shit!” The live chat on the stream is losing their minds, too.

After a moment, the stream swaps to the regular image that Mettaton uses during breaks and the audio plays DJ Napstablook's latest tracks.

Your gaze meets Sans’s from across the room. He gives you another wink and thumbs up, and you give him an ecstatic grin back.


	2. Chapter 2

You sit in the corner of the conference room and scribble in your notebook as Mettaton goes over what content was successful the previous week.

You’ve been here a little over a month now, and these meetings are pretty commonplace. In a lot of ways, this job is like your old job. There’s an emphasis on generating viral content, a lot of pressure to keep producing things quickly, and your primary responsibility is still helping the faces of the company polish their content. In other ways, it’s completely different - here, the focus is on being innovative rather than ripping off what other people are doing, and you actually feel like you have a voice in meetings rather than just being told what to do.

“Moving on to this week,” Mettaton says, flipping to a different page in his itinerary, “I feel like some of our standalone fashion oriented videos are getting stale. I’d like to bring back that series where we go and do impromptu interviews with people on the street about what they’re wearing, but I’ve got no idea how to make it feel fresh. Any ideas, beauties?”

Yves immediately launches into a suggestion, but before she can even get a full sentence out, Tom starts talking over her.

You don’t like Tom. He’s a pushy asshole who can’t stand anyone else being in the spotlight for even a minute. He does this in every meeting, totally railroading any of the meeker employees, misinterpreting what they were going to say so that he can push his own ideas instead, and acting like he’s a hero for doing it.

You’ve known a lot of people like Tom over the years. Everyone knows at least one. But it doesn’t make dealing with them any easier or any less terrible.

You watch Yves clam up and sink down into her seat. Your mouth involuntarily screws up into a frown. Yves is naturally talkative, but not very assertive. People like Tom take advantage of that and it’s upsetting to watch.

You accidentally lock eyes with Mettaton from across the room as Tom continues to yammer on. He already looks a bit miffed, but his expression sours further when he sees the frown on your face. He glances at Yves, and his lip actually curls.

The corners of your mouth twitch up. You duck your head and pretend to be very interested in your notebook. You know what’s about to happen and it’s going to be a bit awkward to watch, but you also can’t say you won’t enjoy it a little.

“UGH,” exclaims Mettaton, dramatically rolling his eyes, “so sorry to _interrupt_ , Tom, but I think actually _YVES_ was talking, and I don’t think that’s at all what she was actually trying to say.”

Tom scrunches his face up in frustration and barely lets Mettaton finish before he opens his mouth again. It’s clear he was barely even listening and was just waiting for a chance to continue saying whatever he wanted to say. “Well, I think -”

Mettaton looks practically livid. In the month you’ve been here, the only time you’ve seen him angry is when Tom tries to pull this bullshit in meetings. Watching timid people be spoken over seems to be one of his biggest pet peeves.

“ _THANKS_ ,” Mettaton says loudly, silencing Tom, before lowering his voice again, “for your input, but I think Yves can manage.” He turns to face her, carefully smoothing out his expression. “Go ahead, lovely, what were you saying?”

Tom crosses his arms, finally cowed, as Yves perks up and finishes what she was trying to say before. The rest of the meeting is peaceful and uneventful until the end, when Mettaton addresses you directly.

“Oh, before we wrap up,” he says, although he’s already gathering up his things, “could you get with Sans about doing another science facts segment? The last one went over very well and we could use another video on the stream clips channel with those kinds of jokes.”

“Sure,” you say, scribbling a reminder to yourself in your notes. “Do you want to meet at some point to discuss whatever we come up with?”

“No, no,” he tells you, waving you off. “You’ve done excellent work since you’ve been here and I trust your judgement. I barely understood the last one, so you should make the call on whether it’s good enough for the show.”

Your stomach feels like it’s about to drop out your ass. You’re fairly sure Mettaton is trying to boost your confidence, but the idea of making such a big decision on your own is terrifying. What if your bit falls totally flat? Would he fire you? You’re barely capable of dressing yourself in the mornings, what makes him think you should be in charge of an entire segment?

You have no idea how to communicate any of that to him, though, so you just stammer, “O-oh, okay.”

* * *

 

When you get back to your desk, you have a message from Sans on the IM client that everyone in the office uses.

It’s the sort of thing he usually sends you, an incredibly dated image macro meme with a pun-related caption he’d put on it himself. You don’t actually get to see Sans that often. According to Papyrus, he’s usually in the lab or off doing basically whatever he wants, and he only occasionally makes content for Mettaton. But he does message you fairly regularly, just to see how you’re coping with your hectic work schedule and to send you lame jokes.

Today’s image is an Advice Animal - the one with the raptor thinking - with the text “if dinosaurs can’t tell jokes / are they pre-hysterical?”

You shoot him a quick message back.

 

**You - 2:34 PM**

this one is a reach. youre not even humerus

**Sans - 2:40 PM**

i’m saur-y i couldnt make you laugh

You snort in spite of yourself.

**You - 2:43 PM**

mtt wants us to do another science bit, you got time to meet up tomorrow?

**Sans - 2:56 PM**

sure. lets do lunch

**Sans - 2:57 PM**

you like chinese food?

* * *

 

Sans shows up at your desk with takeout the next day. The two of you eat in your cubicle, scrolling through comments on the upload of the stream clip and trying to think of a new idea.

“To be honest, I’ve been so busy doing thumbnails and other graphics for everyone that I haven’t been thinking about what to do for the next installment at all,” you confess. “You got anything?”

“Uhh… I thought we could swap out the background image from the intro with something else and change the pun at the bottom. Maybe we could change it to a screencap of the end of the last segment, with the volcano exploding, and put ‘it’s a blast’ underneath.” He stuffs half an eggroll in his mouth and mumbles around it. “That’s all I’ve got.”

“That’s no good,” you say, furrowing your brow as you pick at your lo mein. He looks a little put out and you quickly clarify, “The fact that we’ve got fuckall, I mean, not the pun. I think the pun is good.”

The crease between his brows smooths out and he just grins at you. You watch as the rest of the eggroll disappears into his mouth. You can’t help but notice there’s literally nowhere for the food to go - he has no esophagus as far as you can tell, unless there’s one in his spinal column somehow.

“Hey, uh - um, sorry if this is rude to ask, but like, how do you… eat?” you ask, watching as he swallows.

He shrugs. “Magic,” he says, and his tone tells you that he’s fucking with you but you also don’t have any idea what the actual answer could be if it’s _not_ magic.

“Sooo…” you say, “if you wanted to, could you just let the food fall right through you instead of magic-ing it away to wherever?”

“Yeah, sure,” he replies.

You stare down the neck hole of his shirt, at the bones and nothingness inside. You think about how weird it is to see what’s essentially a walking, talking version of your own insides. An idea occurs to you. “We should do a bit on digestion.”

He chuckles awkwardly and furrows his brow at you.

“No, seriously,” you insist, tossing your carton of lo mein on your desk and grabbing a pad of paper and a pen. Now that the gears are turning, it’s starting to actually seem like a good idea. “We can be like, ‘hey, kids, do you know where your food goes when you eat it?’ and you try to demonstrate by eating something - we can even have diagrams of what you ate going through a digestive tract off to the side just barely in frame so people get the point and what’s supposed to happen - but instead you let it just drop right through you onto the floor and the camera crew can, like, zoom in on your face right as you realize you fucked up.”

You finally finish your run on sentence and show him the quick storyboard you started sketching as you talked.

He studies it for a moment. He’s quiet for so long that you start to get anxious.

“Um, that’s not, uh, offensive, is it?” you ask. “To skeletons? I don’t really - I’m sorry!”

He looks up at you. Maybe you’re imagining things, but the lights in his sockets seem to twinkle like stars for a moment. “No, it’s funny,” he says, and his grin looks sincere. “I like it. Let’s do it.”

You spend the better part of the afternoon making the digestive tract diagrams while Sans practices letting food fall through his ribcage and clothes in a way that would show up well on camera.

* * *

 

The digestion bit goes over just as well as the last one, which surprises you, because you honestly didn’t think it was as funny as the volcano.

During the musical break, you try to make your way to Sans to congratulate him on a good performance, but he’s already surrounded by several of your coworkers. You turn and head to the snack table at the back of the room instead. Between the takeout for lunch and the sugary granola bars you’ve been eating for afternoon snacks, raiding the fruit tray is probably the healthiest choice you’ve made all week.

Conveniently, you’re close enough to overhear Sans’s conversation. With a little twinge of guilt, you pretend to be very selective about what pieces of fruit you want to eat so that you can eavesdrop.

Someone’s complimenting Sans, saying that he’s “definitely one of the funnier parts of the stream.”

“Heh. Well, thanks, but I can’t really take credit for this one,” he says, sounding a little sheepish. “This was mostly the newbie’s idea. All I contributed was the pun in the intro.”

“Oh, really?” asks another person. They don’t sound all that interested.

“Yeah. They’re the real mastermind ‘round here,” he insists.

You flush a little. You’re torn between being upset that Sans doesn’t give himself more credit and being flattered that he’s heaping the praise on you.

You recognize the sound of his slippers scuffing against the flooring. “Anyway, I’m gonna check out the spread. Cya.”

You hurriedly finish loading up your plate as Sans slides up next to you.

“Wow, you really like cantaloupe,” he says as he grabs a plate, his voice tinged with humor.

You barely tolerate cantaloupe. You look down. In your panic, you’ve somehow managed to fill your plate with cantaloupe and hardly anything else. You wrinkle your nose.

“Yeah, love it,” you say, unconvincingly.

“So, I’m guessing you heard all that,” he says, abruptly calling your bluff.

You allow yourself a second of sheer embarrassment at being caught before sighing and bravely powering through it. “I’m flattered you said that stuff, but you know that skit wasn’t all my handiwork, right? I mean, you’re the one who executed it.”

“Eh,” he says, shrugging. “Maybe. But you still did the bulk of the work. Besides, I don’t need the credit. This is just something I do for fun so I don’t end up working myself to the _bone_ , heh, in the lab.” He peers up at you. “You’re the one actually making a living off it.”

You hum thoughtfully. “I still don’t feel right taking all the credit.”

You try to think of a good way to explain how you feel, but you’re interrupted before you can say anything else.

Papyrus gleefully shouts your name, weaving through the crowd to come give you a forceful pat on the back. “You should know that Mettaton’s super impressed by how good you’re doing! Even _I_ liked this one, and this isn’t normally the kind of thing that tickles my funny bone!” He sniggers, a quiet little “nyeh heh heh,” and you’re not sure if he’s fondly remembering the bit or if he’s tickled by his own pun.

“Very punny, bro,” Sans jokes.

Papyrus attempts to give Sans a stern look, but the goofy smile forcing its way onto his face tells you he actually thinks it’s kind of funny. “You can do better than that, Sans!”

Sans shrugs. “You could say that after all the digestion gags, I’m… _pooped._ ”

You make a loud, unattractive snorting noise before erupting into giggles.

“Ugh, Sans! Gross!” exclaims Papyrus, looking horrified.

“Aww,” you whine, “c’mon, let him get it… _out of his system_.”

Sans makes a choked noise before quickly recovering. “Yeah, you don’t need to _bellyache_ about it just because you don’t like my jokes.”

Papyrus glances between the two of you, his horror morphing into something else. It’s difficult for you to read the skeleton brothers’s expressions sometimes because they don’t have some of the details in their face that a human might. His face is slack and his sockets wide.

“Well,” he says, sounding a little awkward but not displeased, “I see you two are getting on like peas in a pod.”

Sans averts his gaze. “Guess so,” he says, quietly.

Things have suddenly gotten a little uncomfortable, so you decide to take your leave. “I’d love to stick around for the rest of the stream, but I gotta get back to my desk and finish some stuff up before I leave for the day.” You give the brothers a smile and wave before turning to leave with your plate of cantaloupe.

Sans just nods and waves, but Papryus shouts, “Wait!” He flounders for a moment before following you into the hallway. “Let me walk with you.”

“Oh, okay,” you say as he falls into step beside you. “Did you need something, or..?”

“Er,” he says, glancing behind him. It almost seems like he’s making sure no one else is in earshot. “I just wanted to thank you for getting along so well with Sans and working with him. I know it’s your job! So you have to do it! So maybe it’s weird for me to be thanking you, but I feel like I should!” He gives you a genuine smile and your heart swells a little bit. “He likes doing the bits with you, I can tell. It took me a while to even convince him to be involved with MTT’s show, but now he actually looks forward to it. If you have any more good ideas for things he could do on stream, could you, y’know… reach out to him?”

It’s news to you that Sans was reluctant to join the stream crew. He seems like a natural addition to the wacky antics. “Of course. I like working with Sans, too,” you tell him. “Frankly, it’s a little nerve wracking to be kind of in charge of something, and I was super worried today’s segment was gonna flop, but Sans is a funny guy and I trust him to tell me if my ideas are bad.”

Papyrus seems pretty pleased by your response, grinning and standing up a little straighter. “I should be getting back,” he says, stopping in his tracks. “Have a good evening!”

“You too,” you say, hurrying off to your desk.

* * *

 

You end up staying far later than you meant to and clock out with several hours of overtime. At some point, most of the overhead lights had been turned off and you’d been staring at your screen in the dark without realizing it. You pack up your stuff and look out the window at the night sky.

At least it’s Friday. Because of the nature of the social media business, you occasionally have to come in on weekends, but not this week. You can sleep in tomorrow morning and have a lazy day to make up for working so hard.

You’re not the only one working odd hours. You can see the glow of other computer screens coming from a few cubicles and hear keys clacking, mice clicking, and the soft murmur of people talking in one of the nearby hallways.

You stand there for a minute, just listening and looking at the moon and zoning out. You read once, on Twitter or something, that the key to being happy is to romanticize your own mundane life. This, right now, the satisfying feeling of working hard, but not too hard, watching the sky and listening to the comforting sounds of a mostly deserted office… It feels a little romantic.

“Hey,” someone next to you says, jolting you out of your train of thought. You look, and it’s Sans, standing next to the wall of your cubicle.

“Oh, shit, you startled me,” you tell him. “What’s up?”

He looks amused. The moonlight filtering through the window and the ambient lighting in the office are giving his white bones a weird glow. “Surprised you’re still here,” he says. He’s carrying a plastic bag with something inside and he catches you looking at it. “I was, uh, gonna be sneaky and just leave this on your desk for you to find on Monday, but you’ve kind of thrown me off by sticking around so late.”

You grin. “I can turn around and pretend not to notice.”

“Uhh, actually,” he says, “yeah, that’d be great.”

You raise a brow at him, but you dutifully turn away and close your eyes regardless. You hear a little movement behind you and wait a couple moments for him to tell you to turn around, but he doesn’t say anything.

“Sans?” you prompt him. “Can I turn around yet?”

You wait another moment in silence before just turning around anyway.

He’s gone and, as you look around the office, you realize he probably made his exit right away because he’s nowhere in sight. The bag is left on the corner of your desk.

You reach in and pull away the plastic.

It’s a little paper mache model of the solar system, with the planets all suspended from wires and attached by a larger rod to a wooden base painted with galaxy colors. The surfaces of the gaseous planets are beautifully marbled and some of the other planets have little craters. The craftsmanship is surprisingly good - Sans doesn’t strike you as an artist and his volcano was pretty rudimentary. It’s obvious some time and effort went into making this. Taped to the base of the model is a note that looks like it was ripped from a notebook.

 

“your desk looked kinda barren, so i thought i’d get you a gift that’s out of this world.

thanks for putting up with a bonehead like me. i’m looking forward to what you come up with next time.

\- sans

p.s. papyrus helped.”

 

Something in your chest squeezes around your heart. You hadn’t decorated your cubicle at all yet because you were secretly worried that people would realize at any moment that you weren’t a good fit and you’d get canned. Sans’s gift is genuinely thoughtful and sweet and it almost makes you tear up.

You clear off some of the papers you’d been hoarding to make room for the model on your desk. The tightness in your chest quickly settles into something ominous and sickly deep in your gut. You furtively lock those feelings away as you head to the elevator and fight to get control of yourself, to think of anything else.

You like Sans. Platonically, you remind yourself. It has to be platonic, because if it’s not, someone is eventually going to notice and you’re going to be in deep, deep shit.

Because you’ve been told what happens to people who catch feelings while working for Mettaton. You haven’t seen it happen yourself yet, but you’ve been warned that it’s the one genuinely bad thing about working here. Mettaton calls the segment “Love Match” and thinks he’s doing everyone a favor by trying to get his employees together with their crushes, but to you it just sounds like torture.

You’re not going to allow yourself to be put on Mettaton’s show and humiliated. You’re not going to give him an excuse to play matchmaker with you.

So you like Sans - but only platonically.


	3. Chapter 3

“I need you to do the ‘MTTFeed Goes To Ebott’s Famous Haunted House’ video with Tom.”

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” you fume, crossing your arms and glowering at Mettaton. “He’s - look, I know this is unprofessional of me to say, but he’s a total _ dick _ ! You know that as well as I do!”

Mettaton shoots you a withering look from the other side of his massive, fancy desk and you shrink in response. You know you’re out of line, being defiant and shout-whispering complaints to his face.

You’re rapidly approaching your half year anniversary at MTT’s company and you’ve let yourself become a little too comfortable. He increasingly relies on you for his pet projects ever since Yves recommended you as a backup editor for fashion content. You know fuckall about fashion, but your technical skills impressed him and he kept coming to you with bigger projects and gave you more creative control. As a result, you work with him personally a fair amount and have developed a casual office friendship with him.

You suppose it’s finally biting you in the ass now.

“And you know I don’t hire people unless they’re at least good at what they do,” he reminds you, sternly. “Tom is the most competent sound artist and music producer we’ve got. You’re the only content producer he can work with somewhat amicably. I need both of you on this project.” He pauses. “You  _ can _ say no. Your job is not in jeopardy if you truly feel uncomfortable doing this.”

“Christ,” you say, heaving a massive sigh. “Okay. Okay, yes, I’ll handle it.”

“Oh, thank goodness,” he says, breathing out a sigh himself. “I really don’t think anyone else could do this video as well as you, darling. Also, now that you’ve agreed, I can tell you that you’ll have total creative control over the end product. The only thing I felt strongly about is that Tom be involved.”

You blanch. You’re used to only Mettaton giving approval for your stream segments, but for videos there’s an approval process where the final product is signed off on by at least two of the three senior creative directors before it gets uploaded to the appropriate YouTube channel. Typically for more time consuming and higher budget videos, one of the directors will supervise the whole thing.

“Are you sure?” you ask immediately. “I mean… I’ve only got one or two higher end videos under my belt so far. And those were team efforts, it’s not like I was calling the shots. Shouldn’t we at least put the final video through the regular approval process?”

“If you want to,” Mettaton says, his tone serious. “Lovely, what I’m getting at here is that if you’re still working for me a year or two down the line, I can see you in a senior creative director position. This is a trial run.”

You’re not sure if you want to shout with joy, shit your pants, or both.

“You’re selling yourself short,” he says, resting his elbows on his desk and leaning forward. You can tell by the sympathetic look on his face that your own expression must be blatantly terrified. “You’re a multi-talented individual with a knack for understanding the zeitgeist. And you’re funny.” He rolls his eyes dramatically. “You would be shocked at how hard it is to find people who are both talented and funny.”

“Thank you,” you mumble, a little shell-shocked.

“Also, just in case the phrase ‘total creative control’ wasn’t explicit enough - you can bring in whoever else you like to work on this project. I’m sure Sans would be thrilled to be involved if you asked.” Mettaton raises a brow at you. He adds, sarcastically, “After all, it’s been  _ so long  _ since you’ve gotten to do a bit with him.”

You flush. It’s only been a couple weeks since the last time you worked on Sans’s Science Second, and you’ve sort of been finding excuses to do more of them because you like working with Sans. You didn’t realize it was that obvious.

He smiles at you. “Keep me in the loop. Don’t let Tom boss you around. If he’s totally unmanageable, let me know.” He waves you off. “That’s all for now.”

* * *

 

“Sorry, why do you need me again?” Tom sneers. “I thought you were a jack of all trades and Mettaton’s golden child.”

“I only know how to do very basic sound editing,” you say through gritted teeth. Fuck, the project hasn’t even started yet and you feel like you’re at the end of your rope. “I can level audio and insert clips but that’s it. I need your help with this.”

Tom practically preens. “Ohhh,” he coos, his demeanor totally doing a 180 turn. “Fiiine. I guess I can do the music and sound mixing. After you’re done with filming, send me a rough cut of the footage and I’ll see what I can do.”

You manage to force your face to form a terse smile. “Thanks so much,” you say, deliberately over-sweetening your tone.

You turn and try not to make it too obvious that you’re storming off to your desk. 

Your butt hits your seat hard and Yves peeks over the wall dividing your cubicles.

“How’d it go?” she asks, gently.

“He’s such a little twerp,” you hiss, quietly enough that no one else can hear.

She frowns. “So, not good. I’m sorry. I don’t know why he’s like that.”

“Maybe he was just born a rude little jerk,” you suggest. You’re being overtly mean but you don’t care.

She laughs a little at that. “Well… yeah, maybe,” she agrees, before ducking down into her cubicle.

You take a deep breath, pull up your IM client, and message Sans.

 

**You - 10:23 AM**

hey. mtt put me in charge of the halloween vid and i get to pick whoever i want to work on it. you in?? its a haunted house thing. like, the scripted kind with actors in costume, not like, actual real house with ghosts. we’re going thru the house and then doing interviews with a couple cast members so basically all youd have to do is show up and crack jokes. filming is next week

 

While you wait for him to respond, you pull up a fresh, empty document and start making a list of who to ask to be in the video.

Sans and Papyrus are easy picks, since they’ve both been successful on Mettaton’s livestreams and you can personally attest to how easy they are to work with. You let yourself pretend that you haven’t been determined to include Sans ever since Mettaton mentioned it. You’re not even sure why you’re bothering to put him on the list since you’ve technically already asked him.

Through Papyrus, you can probably get in touch with Undyne, the fish monster who did physical challenges on the stream that aired on your first day at work. You know he knows her well, and you’ve seen enough of her videos to know she’d have good reactions.

You allow yourself one more indulgent choice and add Yves to the list. Besides, she does well on camera with her bubbly personality. You figure she and Papyrus will be good for team morale if someone gets too freaked out.

After that, it’s just a matter of picking a couple more people you know around the office that get good ratings online and are suited for this kind of content. For the camera crew, there simply aren’t enough camera people to go around and you know you won’t get your pick of the litter, so you just send out a mass email to the film staff asking if any of them have the time for your project.

After you type up all your emails and hit send, there’s really not much else to do but wait for everyone to check their schedules and get back to you. Mettaton had already contacted the haunted house and asked for permission to film, and they’d readily agreed since it was basically free advertising. The questions for the interviews have already been taken care of, too, since the haunted house management wanted to approve the questions beforehand.

You check your messages. Sans still hasn’t messaged back. A thought occurs to you that makes you uneasy.

 

**You - 10:52 PM**

um, thats not offensive is it? i know some people dress up like monsters in haunted houses and i could see how that could be… upsetting. i didnt think about that before, im sorry

 

You nervously try to work on something else while you wait for him to reply. You wonder if you should send a follow-up email to Papyrus, too, to make sure he’s okay with it. You assumed since Mettaton suggested the video that it’d be fine, but…

Your IM client alerts you to a notification and you pull it back up.

 

**Sans - 11:13 PM**

sorry. was napping

**Sans - 11:14 PM**

you worry too much. most “monsters” in haunted houses are just dead versions of humans anyway. its fine

**Sans - 11:15 PM**

before you bring up the skeleton thing, you and i both know i’m not a real human skeleton. i just look kinda like one

 

You breathe a sigh of relief.

Come to think of it, Sans is really only like a skeleton at first glance. His skull isn’t really shaped that much like a human skull, and some areas where bones wouldn’t be connected on a human body seemed to be fused together on his.

 

**You - 11:17 PM**

if it walks like a skeleton, talks like a skeleton….

**You - 11:17 PM**

kidding! so you’re in?

**Sans - 11:19 PM**

real human skeletons don’t talk so your point is moot, bonehead. or should i say fleshhead?

**Sans - 11:19 PM**

yea i’m in. “show up and crack jokes” is my favorite kind of job

 

You grin, pleased. You check your email and you’re already getting responses back from people saying they’re down. You keep a record of who’s in and who’s out in the same document as the original list and move on to working on something else.

* * *

 

The day of filming comes pretty quickly. You offer Sans a ride, but he assures you that he and Papyrus can get there on their own, so you’re only travelling to the location with Yves. Everyone else has their own rides.

“I’m excited!” she tells you on the ride over, bouncing a little in her seat. “I won’t ruin the video if I scream too much, right? I get scared easily.”

You laugh. “No, I think that’s kind of what people want to see.”

“Your friends, um, the skeleton brothers are gonna be there, right?” she asks. There’s a weird edge to her voice.

“Yeah?” you say. You really hope she’s not going to be weird about working with monsters. She’s never seemed to have a problem with it before.

You glance over and she’s biting her lower lip and trying to hide a smile. “It’s, like, really cute how close you are with them,” she says.

You feel your cheeks warm up. “We’re not  _ that  _ close. We’re just work buddies.”

“But they made you that solar system model you keep on your desk, right?” she asks. You don’t like where this is going. “And you’re always laughing and smiling when they’re around…”

You hum noncommittally.

“Do you…” she starts.

“Don’t,” you say, sternly.

“Possibly…” she continues.

“Yves.”

“Have an itsy-bitsy crush?”

You pull up to a red light and use the opportunity to shoot her a glare. “I don’t have a crush. This isn’t middle school.”

“You’re just saying that because you don’t want to end up on Love Match!” she whines, disappointed.

“Yeah, well, so what if I am?” you shoot back, irritably. “Is it a crime to not want my boss involved in my love life? He’s my friend. We’re just friends. You can really like someone and just be friends.” Your voice sounds panicked now, and you wince.

“I never said, like, which one of the brothers you had a crush on,” Yves says, absolutely brimming with glee. “But you’re thinking of a specific one. Which means you totally had one in mind when I brought up crushes.”

“This is torture. You’re literally torturing me.” You sigh loudly as you pull into the parking lot for the haunted house. “Please, can we drop it? I don’t want to make filming this video weird.”

“Okay!” she agrees cheerfully.

Even though you’re fifteen minutes early before the agreed-upon time, you can see a group of people you recognize clustered next to the long line to the entrance. The two cameramen you snagged are here, and to your surprise, so are Sans and Papyrus. Papyrus looks a little more fashionable than usual in a cute jacket with a matching knitted scarf and beanie, and even Sans bothered to change out of his labcoat, shorts, and slippers into a hoodie, jeans, and sneakers.

“Hey guys!” you shout, jogging over with Yves shortly behind you. You turn to her. “Have you guys been properly introduced yet?”

She nods. “We’ve worked on a couple things before. Nice to be working with you again,” she says to the skeletons. Then she turns to wave at the camera guys. “Hi Mark, hi Abdul.”

The camera guys nod and mumble back a response. Neither of these two are very talkative, but everyone in the office knows the whole film crew by now.

You’re about to say something else when a car peels into the parking lot with a screech and makes you jump in surprise. The car parks a little crookedly, and out pops the fish woman you recognize as Undyne. As always, her red hair is up in a high ponytail, but she’s wearing flannel over her usual tank top since the nights are cooler now that Halloween is approaching.

“HEY,” she shouts in your general direction.

You wave, a little anxiously.

“Oh, oh!” exclaims Papyrus. “This is the first time you two are actually meeting!” He rushes forward, pushing Undyne towards you. “Undyne, this is my friend, the one who’s been working with Sans.”

“Oh, the nerd with the bad taste in jokes?” she asks, but she’s grinning as she says it, so you think she’s just teasing. You can’t help but notice how sharp her teeth are now that you’re seeing her in person up close. She’s also much taller than you thought she’d be, nearly reaching Papyrus’s massive height.

“That’s me,” you say, pleasantly, extending a hand for her to shake. “Never thought I’d meet someone who speaks even louder than Papyrus.”

She barks out a laugh as she grabs your hand in her a bone-shatteringly tight grip and pumps your arm up and down. “Oh, I think I like this one,” she says to Papyrus. “Some of the people MTT hires are such babies, they can’t take my ribbing!”

“Haha,” you say, pulling your hand away and checking to make sure nothing’s broken. “ _ Rib _ bing.”

She groans, but you can hear Sans snort behind you.

“You and Sans were obviously  _ made  _ for each other,” she grumbles. You don’t think she means anything by it, but after that conversation with Yves in the car, it still makes you flush. You try to laugh it off. 

The last two members of the team you’ve assembled - Steven and Cammi, who do cooking and DIY videos together - show up shortly after. As a group, you check with some of the staff that you’re still good to film and get directions on how to get to the makeup room, where you’ll be conducting the interviews after you’re done with the actual attraction.

As your group queues up to enter the haunted house, you notice with some relief that there are a couple of other monsters in line. Despite Sans’s assurances, you’re still a little worried that your monster friends might see something upsetting.

“You guys prepped to start filming?” you ask, turning to Mark and Abdul.

“We’ve been rolling this whole time,” Mark says, his voice monotone. He points the camera in your direction.

“Yeah,” says Abdul. “You told us to film  _ everything _ , after all.”

“Oh!” you exclaim. “Sorry, I wasn’t expecting you to be that ready.”

You and the others chat aimlessly about the cast members who are lurking around outside the house to add to the atmosphere. It’s not necessarily good for the video, but not everything you do has to make it into the final cut. The gears are already turning in your head about what pieces to include. 

An actor wearing a horrific zombie getup sneaks up behind Cammi at one point and scares the shit out of her when she turns around, and that’s definitely going in the final cut. A lot of Undyne’s laugh is going to make it in, too - she’s got a loud cackle that’s really infectious. 

It surprises you how easy Papyrus is to scare. He jumps and yells at nearly everything, but he seems to take it really well instead of getting upset, even when Undyne teases him for it. You barely catch the tail end of the conversation, already working up a joke involving a blurry image of Papyrus screaming with some “In memorium” text.

“Wow, baby bones,” she says, nudging him with her elbow. “Didn’t know you were such a scaredy cat. You gonna soil yourself or what?”

Papyrus stands up straight, his hands on his hipbones. “These are trained professionals, Unydne! Of course I’m scared! If I’m not scared, they’re not doing their job!”

“Aren’t most of these guys volunteers?” Steven asks, stifling a laugh and ducking away from a spooky, bloody witch slowly reaching over the waiting line partition.

“ _ Trained professional  _ volunteers,” Papyrus insists.

You feel someone tug lightly on your jacket. You look, and Sans is peering up at you. His ever-present smile is there, but there’s something strained in his eyes.

“You good?” he asks, quietly.

“Yeah, why?” you ask back, genuinely confused.

“You just seem off,” he says with a shrug. “You’re barely reacting to anything.”

You look away sheepishly. “Sorry… I guess I’m just spacing out. I keep thinking about what all I’ll need to edit out of the final cut, or what I should put in.”

The weird look in his eyes clears up almost immediately. “Heh. Worry about that later. S’not gonna be a good video if our best jokester is zoned out the whole time.”

You smile. “You’re not our best jokester?”

He just shrugs again. Next to him, a guy covered in blood with a creepy mask and a fake axe leans over the partition to whisper something spooky in Sans’s ear.

Sans just looks at him, still grinning. “Gonna have to speak up if you wanna  _ axe  _ me something, buddy.”

You snicker. “Yeah, you’re really  _ killing  _ him here, why don’t you  _ cut  _ him some slack and stop mumbling?”

The guy turns his gaze on you, tilting his head creepily before suddenly lunging in your direction.

You yelp and jump back, calming down when you remember the actors can’t actually touch you. “Fuck, okay, that was actually pretty spooky,” you admit, glancing warily at the camera crew.

Sans just laughs, a low, throaty chuckle. It doesn’t surprise you at all that he’s unflappable and impossible to scare.

The inside of the haunted house is more of the same. You’ve probably seen spookier, but it’s still pretty impressive. You wish it had more of theme to build the immersion - it sort of just seems like a cluster of spooky, random rooms with no connection to each other. There’s what seems to be a serial killer’s bedroom filled with his “trophies,” a witch’s room where she’s brewing something gross in a cauldron, and so on. At least they’re all well done and the actors are all very good at acting scary.

Yves, true to her word, shrieks practically the whole way through and clings to your arm for most of it. Sans is completely unresponsive to the scares, cracking jokes with you the whole time, until the room towards the end.

You can see the exit at the other end of the room. This one’s staged like a little girl’s room, all pink and benign at first glance, until you realize half the stuffed animals are bloody and speared with knives.

There’s a girl on the bed. She’s probably in her teens but she’s wearing clothes and makeup that make her look younger, with rosy cheeks and a torn up babydoll dress. She turns her head slowly to look at your group, revealing a massive, bloody grin and a knife clutched to her chest.

“Don’t leave,” she says, in a sickeningly sweet falsetto voice, but her tone quickly becomes malicious. “I just want to PLAY…”

Yves shrieks and bolts for the door, leaving you behind. You’re frozen in place for a minute, before you glance back to look for the rest of your group. Most of them are still lingering in the previous room, gawking at a zombie reaching for them behind iron bars, but Sans and Abdul are next to you.

Sans is frozen in the doorway. For the first time that night he looks genuinely scared. His sockets are wide, the lights totally missing from their usual spot within his skull, and his brow is beading sweat.

“BOOK IT, DUDE,” you shout, holding out your hand for him to take and jolting him out of his trance. He looks at you, alarmed, then grabs for your hand and lets you drag him out the door. He seems to regain his composure once you’re outside you’re both outside, huddling next to Yves and catching your breath.

“Hey,” you say, echoing his question from earlier. “You good? You kinda froze in there.”

“Yeah. I, uh…” He pauses, looking away. He still looks a little phased, but not as scared as before. He wipes his brow with the sleeve of his hoodie. “Stuff with kids just freaks me out.”

You nod in sympathy. Spooky kids freak you out too, so you get it.

The rest of the group catches up soon enough, and all of you make your way to the makeup room for the interviews. Those go smoothly enough and are over before you know it - you ask the questions off the scripts, nod along to the answers and crack some jokes, then call it a day. 

You touch base with everyone in the parking lot before you drive Yves back to her place. She keeps giving you funny looks once the two of you are on the road.

“Soooo… Sans, huh?” she says, pretending to bring it up casually.

You make a discontented noise. “Not this again…”

She giggles a little. “Look, I can really drop it if you want. But I just thought you should know… like, the way you too interact, it’s super obvious some kinda romantic tension is brewing. It’s only a matter of time before Mettaton notices, too, if he hasn’t already.”

You huff out a sigh. “That’s exactly what I’m afraid of.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> by the way, thanks everyone for the kind words in the comments!! <3 <3 i really appreciate it and im glad people are enjoying the story so far!


	4. Chapter 4

You get into work late the next morning, since you were out so late filming the video last night. When you get there, Tom is already lingering near your workspace. You grit your teeth.

“Morning, Tom,” you say, dropping your stuff on your desk.

“Hey,” he says, in a tone that makes it clear he’s not in a good mood. “Do you have that footage yet?”

You have to stop and hold yourself back from throttling him. “Not yet, Tom!” you say, putting on that overly kind voice you use just for him. “We only filmed it last night, buddy!”

He snorts. “Well, maybe if you’d gotten in earlier, you’d have it done by now.”

“Probably not!” you exclaim, sweetly. “It’s hours of footage. I’ll get it to you as soon as possible, but it might take me a while.”

He rolls his eyes and storms off without another word.

Yves rolls her chair out of her cubicle to look at you once he’s out of earshot. “He’s cranky today,” she explains. “Don’t take it personally. He was yelling at Mark earlier, too.”

“Nobody ever told him you catch more flies with honey than with vinegar, I guess,” you grumble, grabbing your mug off your desk and heading to the break room to get some coffee.

You’re standing there at the coffee maker, yawning, when Sans sneaks up on you.

“Hey,” he says, standing directly behind you.

You jolt, turning around. He literally hadn’t made a single sound until he spoke, even though the linoleum in the break room is infamous for making shoes squeak. “Christ, how do you do that?”

He shrugs. “Hey, uhh… saw that guy, uh…” he trails off.

“Tom?”

“Tom. Saw him yellin’ at you back there. He usually like that?”

The brewer beeps and you fill up your mug with fresh, hot coffee. “Apparently he’s worse than usual today, but yeah, he’s basically always shitty.”

“Sheesh,” he says. “You, uh, need to talk about it?”

You wince. “Umm… I probably shouldn’t vent too much while at work.”

Sans nods and seems to consider this for a moment. “Okay, how ‘bout we grab dinner tonight? After you’re done with work?”

Your instinct is to say yes - you always enjoy hanging out with Sans at work, so hanging out after work is the obvious next step - but you’re worried about the optics of going out to dinner with him. What if someone else heard about it and it got back to Mettaton? Dinner after work with just two people seems like it’d be easily misconstrued as a date.

He seems to sense your reluctance. “Pap can come, too,” he adds. “And your friend, Yves, if you want. There’s a monster-owned pub near here that I think you’d like. They got darts and pool. Give you a chance to release some frustration.”

“Hmm,” you say, considering it. “Yeah, okay, that sounds fun. I’ll ask Yves if she wants to come.”

Sans nods and waves as he walks off.

You head back to your desk to start working on the haunted house footage before Tom gets too pissed off. You weren’t exaggerating when you said there were hours of video to sort through. You decide to make a cursory sweep of it all and, aside from a couple of sweeping shots of the waiting line and house, delete any parts where there’s no banter between the group and no scares happening.

After that, you dive in and look for specific areas to pull out and include in the final video. There’s tons of footage of Yves screaming in horror. Some of them are pretty funny, but you don’t want to tire out the viewer with the same thing over and over, so you decide that later you’ll put together a compilation of quick cuts of her freaking out as a gag.

You scrub through the latter half of the footage from inside the attraction, stopping when you realize Abdul caught footage of you and Sans in the creepy little girl’s room. Looking at it now, when you’re not in a state of panic yourself, it’s even more apparent how freaked out Sans is as he stands completely still, terror showing in every part of his body language. There also seems to be something wrong with the footage right when Sans stops cold in the doorway. The space around him looks warped and fuzzy. You wonder if the file got corrupted somehow, but doesn’t happen any other areas.

Weird. Well, whatever, you didn’t really plan on including that anyway. Sans’s reaction isn’t funny and he doesn’t laugh it off afterwards, so it’s just kind of a bummer to watch. You trim out any footage where you can see Sans in the room and leave in just a close up cut of the girl turning around.

This is probably the most tedious and boring part of editing, you think as you sip your coffee. Narrowing down what’s usable and what’s not is time consuming and requires watching the same shit over and over. At least when you’re done, you get to have a bit of fun editing in visual gags and cool effects.

* * *

 

Later that afternoon, you and Yves meet up with Sans and Papyrus out on the street by the entrance to the building. Apparently, the pub isn’t far, so you’re all just going to walk there together. Papyrus is dressed rather fashionably again, and Yves takes notice. Papyrus lights up when she compliments his shoes.

“Thank you!” he exclaims excitedly, stopping in his tracks and holding one foot up a little to show them off better for a moment. “By the way, do you think you and I could do another video on DIY fashion? I’m very into iron-on patches lately! I’ve started adding custom ones to my Etsy store!”

“What?” you interject. “I didn’t know you had an Etsy.”

“Of course!” he says, proudly. “I have a wonderful fashion sense. Although, I have to admit, selling custom clothing wasn’t a career transition I expected of myself either.”

“He’s really good, though,” Yves says. “He’s gotten great with an embroidery machine.”

Papyrus nods. “At first I wasn’t that good at it, but I’ve come a long way from the days of Sans making my costumes for me!”

You feel your eyebrows shoot up. _Sans_ used to make costumes? You glance rapidly between the two of skeletons. “ _Really?!_ ”

Sans grins sheepishly. “I wasn’t that good at it. Pap loved it at the time, but the stuff he makes on his own now is way better than what I could do.”

“Nonsense,” Papyrus assures him as the four of you head toward a building with a neon sign. “I still have my old battle body in my closet, just in case!”

“I never knew you guys were so talented,” you say, as you push through the doors and scan for a place to sit. You notice there’s a higher ratio of monsters to humans than you’d usually see in a restaurant and some of them turn to smile and wave at your group as you enter. There’s a spot at the bar over by the pool table, and Sans makes a beeline for it.

“I can do a little more than the bare minimum if I try,” Sans says to you over his shoulder. “I just usually don’t.”

All of you file into the open seats. You notice that Sans tenses a little when you sit next to him, but relaxes again when Papyrus slides into the seat on your other side, with Yves next to him.

The bartender, who seems to be composed entirely of fire, steps over and hands out menus. They don’t incinerate in his grasp, and neither do his clothes, so maybe he’s not actually made of fire, even though you feel warmer the closer he stands to you. You try not to stare too much - there’s a water elemental who works in the office sometimes, so this isn’t _that_ new and unusual for you, but it’s still pretty fascinating. You wonder if there’s some kind of solid mass under the bright orange flames or if he’s just fire all the way through.

Sans barely looks at his before pushing it back. “I’ll just have the usual, Grillby.”

You shoot Sans a funny look. He didn’t mention that he came here often enough for the staff to know his order. “Uhh, I’m gonna need a minute, sorry,” you say to the bartender.

“No problem,” he replies with a deep voice that crackles strangely, and you can’t tell if it’s from disuse or from the nature of his body. He turns back to one of the other patrons.

Papyrus seems to be familiar with the menu as well, deciding much faster and putting his menu down sooner than you and Yves. After you order, Yves immediately resumes the conversation with Papyrus about doing a DIY video together.

“Sooo…” you say, trying to make conversation with Sans, “how’s stuff going in the lab?”

You honestly have no fucking clue what he does for his main job, other than that he works in the royal lab. He doesn’t talk about it much and when you’re together you’re usually too busy working on something or joking around for you to bring it up.

“S’alright,” he says, drumming his bony fingers on the bar. “Thought I’d be doing more active work by now, but I’m still stuck getting acquainted with modern science.” He actually sounds a little put out, which surprises you. You’ve never seen him grumpy before. “Feels like I spend all my time reading research papers.”

“Um,” you start, immediately reaching for your drink when Grillby comes back and sets it down. You feel awkward having nothing to do with your hands. “What field is it that you’re in again?”

“Heh, uh… you could say the royal science team is kind of a _skeleton_ crew,” he jokes. “It’s just me and a couple other monsters, so I have to be a jack of all trades. One of my main focuses is astronomy, though, so… being underground all that time, you can see why I have a lot to catch up on.”

You cringe. “Yeah, I can imagine that wasn’t easy to study underground.”

“S’part of why I quit, yeah,” he comments, quietly.

“You quit?” you ask.

“A long time ago. Friend of mine encouraged me to get back into it after the barrier - after, uh, we came out of the mountain. Kinda forgot how much studying was involved.”

He doesn’t really seem like he wants to elaborate further than that. He looks uncomfortable, avoiding your gaze and fiddling with his hands. He’s still smiling like always, but it seems kind of strained.

Thankfully, the conversation is interrupted by Grillby arriving again with your food. You notice Sans’s burger is absolutely drenched in ketchup and wrinkle your nose a little.

“Dude, nasty,” you tease him. “Can you even taste the meat under all that ketchup?”

He just grins at you. “Is it so bad that I like a little burger with my ketchup?”

You’re about to make another joke at his expense when you’re interrupted.

“Oh, Sans, Papyrus, fancy seeing you here!”

You turn, and a large, white, goat-like woman is making her way from the door to the bar. She’s about as tall as Papyrus but looks larger because of all her fluffy fur. She’s got a cute little kid in tow, who’s clutching her giant paw in their little hand. Is she the kid’s adoptive mom, or maybe a nanny? She’s definitely radiating motherly auras.

She also looks vaguely familiar.

“Omigod,” Yves breathes. “Is that the _queen_?”

“What,” you deadpan. You take a better look.

She looks different wearing civilian clothing instead of royal robes, but she definitely looks like she could be the same monster you’ve seen on TV giving speeches about peace and harmony. Jesus Christ, what is the queen of monsters doing in a pub?

“Hey, Tori,” Sans says as the kid releases the goat woman’s hand and bolts over to greet him. Sans ruffles their short brown hair. “Hey, kiddo.”

“Hello, your majesty!” bellows Papyrus. The kid quickly leaves Sans and circles around you to tug at Papyrus’s sleeve. They both perform a series of gestures that looks like it might be some kind of secret handshake.

“Oh, please,” she says, looking away and seeming embarrassed. “I thought we agreed calling me that was overly formal.” She turns to you. “And who’s this you’re with?”

Sans casually introduces you and Yves to “Tori - uh, Toriel.” He doesn’t even bother to mention her status as royalty. You’re really not sure how to greet a fucking queen and make to get off your stool to bow or something, when she stops you with a laugh.

“Oh, no, dear, please don’t get up,” she says between giggles. “I’m queen in name only since we came to the surface. I’m just a regular parent here to get something to eat with my child. Frisk, sweetheart, come say hello.”

The kid tears themself away from Papyrus and huddles up to Toriel’s legs, waving and smiling at you and Yves. Watching Frisk clutch the goat woman’s pants and be so polite is positively adorable. Yves looks as delighted by this as you are, if her massive grin is any indication.

 

“Tori, kid, we were thinkin’ ‘bout playing pool in a bit, if you wanna join us,” says Sans. He doesn’t seem to just be offering out of politeness.

Frisk shakes their head rapidly, looking up at Toriel and making another series of gestures. This time you recognize it as sign language, though you have no idea what they’re saying.

Toriel giggles at whatever Frisk said, covering her mouth and looking at Sans. You glance next to you, and Sans looks positively mortified, his face stuck with his mouth stretched wide somewhere between a grin and a frown. Papyrus seems more or less unfazed.

Toriel notices your confusion. “Frisk doesn’t want to intrude on your double date, dear.”

Oh god. This is not good. You thought bringing Yves and Papyrus would make hanging out with Sans after work look better, but maybe it looks worse. Even a _child_ thinks you’re on a date! If this ever gets back to Mettaton -

“We’re just on a coworker’s date,” Papyrus announces happily. “It’s coworker bonding time!”

Sans makes a choked noise. “I, uh, don’t think that’s really a ‘date,’ bro.”

Papyrus sighs dramatically and crosses his arms. “It’s a friendly date! For coworker friends!”

Yves seems absolutely thrilled at this turn of events, leaning away from her chair, grinning wildly and trying to catch your eye. You pointedly avoid looking at her.

Toriel’s kind eyes twinkle with mirth. “Well, regardless… we appreciate the offer, but we wouldn’t want to intrude on special coworker time. Besides,” she says, patting the kid’s backpack, “we actually have some homework to work on while we eat.” She nudges Frisk towards the back of the building, where the booths are. “Have a lovely time. Sans, Papyrus, we’ll talk to you later.”

The two of them walk off, Frisk signing animatedly up at Toriel.

“Um, okay, so you guys know _the queen_ and you didn’t think to _mention this?!_ ” exclaims Yves as soon as Toriel is out of earshot.

“Well, everyone knows the queen,” says Papyrus, matter-of-factly.

“ _Not on a first name basis!_ ” Yves screeches.

You start stuffing your face with your food, wholly embarrassed. You’re apparently so blatantly crushing on Sans that even people who just met you can tell. You didn’t think you were being that obvious. You don’t even think you have that big of a crush! So what if maybe you’ve thought, in passing, about how sweet and funny and charmingly goofy he is! It’s not like you’re head over heels for him! You don’t even know him well enough for that - you only just learned what he does for a living!

Ugh.

Is there anyone in the fucking world that _hasn’t_ noticed that you have a thing for Sans?

You are so fucking doomed.

Sans looks almost embarrassed as you as he tears into his burger. The two of you silently let Papyrus and Yves prattle on without you.

You stare at a whorl in the wood of the bar top and think about how awkward this is. It’s so obvious that Sans isn’t pleased about the date thing. You can’t tell if it’s the idea of being on a date in general that’s got him upset, or if he’s specifically upset about being seen with you.

This is uncharted territory for you in so many ways. You’ve never had a crush on a different species before. You’ve been trying not to think too hard on the logistics of that, but now you’re suddenly wondering about the social ramifications, too. You’ve never seen a monster and human together in that way before. Maybe it’s weird that you think a skeleton is cute. Maybe it’d be weird if a skeleton thought _you_ were cute.

You’re sort of half listening and nodding along with Yves and Papyrus’s conversation, so you notice when Papyrus awkwardly trails off in the middle of a sentence. You glance at him and he’s staring at Sans with a funny look on his face.

“Umm… I need to use the little skeleton’s room,” Papyrus announces suddenly and loudly, abruptly standing up from his stool. “Sans, please accompany me.”

Sans shoots him a confused look, and Papyrus sends him a stern one back. The two of them stare at each other for a minute as though they’re having some kind of telepathic conversation before Sans relents, hopping off the bar stool.

“Be right back, don’t miss us too much!” Papyrus yells out as he leads Sans to the bathroom.

* * *

 

“Sans!” Papyrus shout-whispers in alarm as soon as the bathroom door swings shut behind them. “You are totally blowing our cool coworkers’s date!”

“Uhh… I dunno what you mean, bro,” Sans replies. He hopes he doesn’t look cagey. He feels cagey.

“Why are you being rude?” Papyrus asks, accusingly. “You’re barely talking. You haven’t even been punning!” He huffs loudly. “You’re been weird ever since the queen and Frisk said hello and it’s making our friend sad.”

Sans is pretty sure that’s not what’s making you sad.

“I’m not being weird,” Sans lies, looking away. He knows he’s being weird. “And it’s not a date,” he adds.

Papyrus stamps his foot. “You are definitely being super weird! What does it matter if it was a date or not?”

Sans’s gut would be twisting, if he had one. There’s so many reasons why it matters. He doesn’t want Tori to see him on a date - he knows she’s not interested, he knows it’s not healthy to still hold a candle for her, but some small part of him still wants her to know he’s available. Just in case.

He’s also pretty sure that you’re sad because you don’t want people to think that you’re here with _him_. He’s thought for a while now that maybe something was going on between you and Papyrus. Sometimes Papyrus walks you to your desk after Mettaton’s streams so he can talk to you alone. And Sans is pretty sure he’s caught you looking dreamily at Papyrus a few times. Like at the haunted house. You’d zoned out while staring right at him.

That’s why when you hesitated about going out tonight, he’d suggested bringing his brother.

But he doesn’t know how to bring any of that up with Papyrus. There’s a lot of things he and his brother can talk openly about, but their love life isn’t really one of those things. He doesn’t even know if Papyrus is interested in humans - he’s never shown genuine interest in _anyone_ aside from maybe Mettaton, as far as he can tell.

So Sans settles on saying, “Well, the way we were sitting… you and Yves next to each other... Yves might get the wrong idea about, uh, the two of you.”

Papyrus lets out a massive sigh. “Sans, I have no clue what you’re going on about. Double dates and group dates are dates where everyone goes out together! So you can sit wherever! I see no issue here!” He crosses his arms and taps his foot impatiently. “I don’t understand. It was you who suggested this! I thought you’d be excited to hang out with your friend but you’ve been a wet blanket for the past twenty minutes!”

“I am excited -”

“Then you should probably act like it!” Papyrus exclaims. He pauses, takes a moment to calm down. “Your new friend has been very good for you,” he says, softly, his tone reproachful.

Sans feels something in his soul lurch unpleasantly. Aside from Frisk, he feels closer to you than any other human he’s met so far. He really did invite you to hang out because he felt bad about that guy going off on you first thing when you came in this morning, and he feels even worse that he might be the one keeping you from having a good time.

And Papyrus is right - you’re good for him. Being in the lab all the time, mostly sitting around alone and doing quiet, tedious work was hard on him. He did odd jobs for so long because it kept him busy. Working with you has kept him from lapsing too far into old habits.

“Sorry, bro,” he says, looking down at his feet and feeling a little ashamed of himself.

“We can start a game of pool when we get back,” Papyrus suggests. “That way we won’t be sitting down, if that’s really what’s bothering you. Would that help?”

Sans appreciates how his brother always tries to make him feel better after a serious scolding. “Yeah,” he agrees, “uhh, that’d be good.”

* * *

 

Yves scooches over into the stool next to you once the skeleton brothers are out of sight.

“Sooo… I can kinda tell things aren’t going super well with Sans,” she says. “He really didn’t like when that kid said we were on a date, huh?”

You frown at her. “Can we not talk about this right now? I’m bummed out already and they could be back any minute.”

She sighs forlornly, resting her elbows on the bar. “Sorry… I’m just disappointed. You guys woulda been super cute together.”

You make a discontented noise.

“Okay, dropping it!” Yves exclaims. Coming from anyone else it would sound passive aggressive, but from her, it sounds more like she’s issuing a direct order to herself. “How about that queen, huh? She’s prettier in person.” She pauses. “Not that, like, I didn’t think she was pretty on TV, too!”

“She is really pretty,” you admit. It’s more than just her looks, though. She strikes you as a very charming woman.

“Does that make us furries?” Yves muses.

You laugh. “Uhh, I guess so? Speaking of which, furries are probably going nuts over monsters, right? Like half of the types of monsters I’ve seen have animal traits.”

She laughs, too. “I mean, they’ve gotta be, right? I bet some monsters are beating off suitors with sticks.”

You’re interrupted by the sound of someone marching in your direction.

“We are returning from the bathroom after conducting our normal bathroom activities!” Papyrus announces loudly as he marches back to your spot at the bar.

You snort. “Uh, okay. Welcome back.”

“I think it’s high time we got to playing some pool!” he exclaims, gesturing for your group to head over to the pool table. “Should we play in teams of two?”

Pool sounds like an excellent idea to you. Much better than sitting next to Sans and moping some more. You mosey over to the table with Yves. “Sure,” you agree, “Skeletons versus humans?”

Papyrus has a little twinkle in his eye at that. “If you want. But I must warn you, Sans and I are very good at pool.”

“I spent a lot of time goofing off at Grillby’s back in the Underground,” Sans explains as he sets up the balls.

“I’m… not very good,” Yves admits to you, sheepishly. “How about me and Papyrus against you and Sans?”

You glance warily at the skeletons, trying to gauge Sans’s reaction to that idea. Papyrus is shooting his brother an anxious look too, but Sans just shrugs.

“Fine by me,” he says.

The four of you get the game started. You’re a little rusty, but competent enough, and Sans is good enough to make up for what you lack - surprising, considering he’s the only one of the group who has to stand on his tiptoes to lean against the pool table properly. You find yourself mostly lining up easy shots for him to take.

“We’re losing!” Papyrus realizes with some alarm. “Quick, emergency team meeting,” he says to Yves, putting his arm around her and turning away from you and Sans so they can whisper conspiratorially to each other.

Sans grins, watching his brother draw diagrams in the air with his finger. “So,” he says to you. “I believe I promised you a chance to vent earlier.”

You sigh. “To be honest, there’s not much to say. Tom is just a total dickwad for no reason.” You grab your drink off the bar and take a long sip. “He sent me an email like ten minutes before 5 PM, saying like,” you pitch your voice up in a mockery of his nasally tone, “‘Ohh, got that footage done yet? I need it sooooo baaaaad because my plate is soooooo fuuuull.’ Like it’s not going to be full tomorrow, or a week from now? All of us are ALWAYS busy!”

Sans snorts. Bizarrely, he seems to be genuinely amused by your ranting. “Wow. He sounds like a real piece of work.”

“He also asks the DUMBEST questions,” you continue. “He’s like, ‘Oh, what file type do you need?’ I dunno, dude, probably the file type you’ve sent me EVERY time you’ve worked with me? The file type EVERYONE in the office uses? Like, are you being deliberately obtuse or are you just stupid?”

Sans laughs out loud at that one.

You huff out another sigh. “I could put up with all of that stuff if he just didn’t act so fucking superior all the time. Like he’s better than everyone else when he’s just an asshole. It drives me crazy.”

“I know the type,” Sans says, watching as Papyrus and Yves wrap up their secret meeting. “I’m sorry you have to deal with that. If it’s any consolation, I’m sure the video will be great regardless.”

“Thanks,” you say. To your surprise, you actually do feel a little better. “Hey, would you mind watching it before I send it to the supervisors for approval? Tell me what you think? It’s not even close to done yet, but maybe next week...”

Sans grins at you. He seems super pleased that you value his opinion enough to ask. “Yeah, of course.”

The four of you get back to playing. The rest of the evening goes much smoother than the start, aside from Papyrus getting a little cross when you and Sans start with the pool-based puns. You all decide to call it quits after a couple hours and walk back to the office parking lot together. Papyrus and Sans are giving Yves a ride home this time, so you drive back to your apartment alone.

You contemplate your crush as you drive. You’re still not entirely sure what exactly you feel for Sans, but it’s clear he’s not interested in anything romantic with you, so you may as well squash those feelings now. Do skeleton monsters even have a sex drive? A desire for romance? Based on Papyrus’s idea of a “date,” probably not. You don’t have the time or energy to deal with the complexities of a monster-human relationship right now anyway.

You _definitely_ can’t handle your boss finding out and meddling in an already complicated situation.

Though it might be too late.

* * *

 

You finish the Halloween video just in time for it to get posted before the office Halloween party. Sans approved of it whole heartedly, and two of the content directors had signed off on it nearly as soon as you sent it to them for approval.

Someone sets up a projector and a lot of your coworkers gather around for a screening. Even Tom seems pretty pleased with the result, even though he’d griped about how many sound effects you asked him to make. You were a little nervous it’d flop, but if your coworker’s laughter is any indication, it’ll probably do just fine.

You notice that some of your coworkers glance at you and smile weirdly whenever the video gets to a part with you and Sans bantering. You shift nervously and sip your drink. What? What’s so weird about joking around with a friend? There’s nothing romantic or sexy about puns.

You check the comments on the video the next day. To your absolute terror, one of the top comments is talking about the chemistry you have on screen with Sans.

* * *

 

It finally happens when you go to watch a stream you don’t have a segment in.

You’re cajoled into going by Yves, who does have a short segment that she worked on.

“It’s got jokes,” she explains anxiously as the two of you walk through the halls. “I’m not all that funny, so maybe I should’ve gotten your opinion beforehand, but it’s too late now… but I wanna know what you think for next time.”

You realize far too late that it was only an excuse to get you in the filming room.

You’re immediately ambushed by makeup staff when you walk in. Mettaton is already on stage, in his interviewing seat.

“Oh, there you are,” says the makeup artist. “Would you like me to cover up that blemish for you, dear?”

“What? No!” you cry, pulling away from her grabbing hands. “I’m not even in the show.”

Her face screws up into a confused frown. “Um… yes you are, dear.”

You take a better look at the stage, at the sign behind Mettaton.

It’s got “Love Match” written on it in big, bubbly, pink letters.

“Oh no,” you moan, turning to bolt for the door. Before you can even take a step, you’re cut off by a buff dog man that you can’t remember the name of. He pushes you onto the stage. You glance around frantically, quickly realizing all your methods of escape have been cut off by other staff members.

“Come on up, darling,” Mettaton says cheerfully.

You stand frozen in front of the camera for a moment like a deer in headlights before making your way to the chair across from Mettaton. You start wringing your hands in your lap as soon as you sit down, shooting Yves looks of betrayal as she sheepishly stands at the back of the room.

“Hellooooo my wonderful audience, and welcome to tonight’s stream! We’ve done dating games on the show before, but I thought this time it’d be fun to get the audience involved,” Mettaton says excitedly to the camera. It suddenly dawns on you what the tablet he’s clutching is for and you gawk at him, horrified.

“Oh no,” you murmur again. “No, no, no…”

“ _Oh yessss!_ ” he shouts in a sing-songy tone. “My dear, welcome to LOVE MATCH: TWENTY QUESTIONS EDITION! We’re splitting this game into two parts - ten questions tonight, ten next stream, but _all_ questions submitted through Twitter or YouTube by our lovely viewers. Then we’ll see if everyone can guess exactly who it is that your heart is _longing_ for!”

“Oh God,” you breathe, burying your face in your hands. “It’s - it’s really not that serious, I…” You trail off, glancing warily at the cameras. “My heart isn’t ‘longing’ for anything, I mean, I, hah, I -”

Mettaton swiftly cuts you off. “That’s okay, sweetheart, I think we all know what you’re trying to say.” He winks and turns to the camera again. “Now, I do have one hint for the viewers - I happen to have a pretty good idea of who the special someone is, and it _is_ someone you’ve seen on the show at least once before! So you should be able to guess if you ask the right questions.” He looks down, flicking his finger against the screen of the tablet, reading through the live comments. “Oooh, some pretty good ones already! First question, dear, from gossipholicxx: ‘Like, is it a boy or a girl or someone nonbinary?’”

“I thought Twenty Questions was supposed to be yes or no questions only!” you yelp, gripping at the armrests of your seat.

Mettaton tsks at you, wagging his finger. “There’s no fun in that! Come on then, give us the answer.” He rests his chin in one hand and looks at you eagerly.

“Um…” You look around again, trying to find some means of escape, but there’s definitely no way out of this without looking like a total spoilsport. You’re just going to have to answer the questions and try not to give too much away. You could lie, but the audience might guess someone you hate or someone else might think you’re talking about them and that’d almost be worse. “It’s a guy,” you relent.

“Excellent, that eliminates roughly half the staff,” Mettaton says, scrolling through comments again. “Oooh! Question two, from CoolSkeleton95: ‘Does he make you laugh?’”

You look out into the crowd in alarm. You _know_ that’s Papyrus’s online handle, you follow him on Twitter! He jumps when you meet his gaze and he looks away guiltily, hiding his phone behind his back. Does he know? How long has he known? Why didn’t he say something before now and why the hell is he contributing to this awful game?

“Yes,” you force yourself to say. You sound strained. “He’s very funny.”

“Ohh, you like funny guys, hmm?” Mettaton coos. “Okay, question three, from... er… I don’t know if I can read that name out loud without getting demonetized, darling. Anyway, the question: ‘Does he turn you on?’ Oh, salacious! We might be getting demonetized anyway!”

You audibly choke. “Wh - I can’t answer that!” Your gaze flicks to the camera and you can kind of see your own horrified expression in the lens. “I don’t know! We’re not close enough yet for me to be thinking about that!”

That’s a lie. You’ve totally thought about it briefly before forcing yourself to think about something else. But you’re barely ready to admit to yourself that you think anything like that about Sans, so you’re certainly not going to admit anything to the whole world.

“Hmm,” Mettaton muses, raising a brow at you. “Sounds like an answer to me. Question four, from EightLegged: ‘How many limbs does he have?’”

You manage a shaky smile. At least this one really doesn’t give anything away, since most people who work for Mettaton are bipedal. “Two arms, two legs.”

“Question five, from nicedream: ‘Does he prefer froyo or ice cream?’”

You squint. Maybe this won’t be so bad if Mettaton keeps asking you dumb, pointless questions. “Um, I actually don’t know, but I imagine he wouldn’t turn his nose up at either one.”

Mettaton nods sagely, as though this is very important information. “Question six, from ALPHYS: ‘Have you worked with him on a project before?’”

Ugh. Nevermind. That name sounds vaguely familiar, but you can't place it. Whoever they are, they’re actually trying to figure out who your crush is. “Yeah, I have,” you admit.

“Hmm!! The plot thickens!” Mettaton says, excitedly. “Question seven, from CoolSkeleton95 again: ‘Do you really, sincerely care about him?’” Mettaton leans forward for this one, eager for your response.

You look at Papyrus again, your brow furrowing. He still looks a little guilty but he’s meeting your gaze this time. “Of course I do,” you say, honestly. “He’s my friend. That’s more important to me than a dumb crush.”

Papyrus’s face lights up.

“Oooh! That’s a little bit of info you let slip, darling.” Mettaton looks delighted. “Now we know he’s your coworker _and_ your friend.”

Shit.

“Next question, from StrongFish91: ‘Do you think he’s haaaandsome?’” Mettaton reads the last word in a sing-songy voice.

That’s Undyne’s personal Twitter handle. You scan the room to glower at her, but she doesn’t seem to actually be here. She must be watching the stream somewhere else. “Yes, I think he’s haaaandsome,” you say, rolling your eyes and mocking Mettaton’s tone.

He just laughs. “Ooh, we’re getting close to the end now! Question nine, from fashiongaffe: ‘We know you think he’s funny, but does he think _you’re_ funny?’”

Fuck, that’s Yves’s YouTube name! Is everyone conspiring against you? You shoot her another look and she shrugs at you from across the room. Maybe she thought she was giving you a softball question, but you don’t really agree.

You sigh. “I mean - I hope so. I think he does, he laughs at my jokes, so…”

Mettaton nods, scrolling on his tablet and looking for the last question. Suddenly his face splits into an absolutely menacing grin and his eyes get wide. “Last question for today, before we take a short break and get back to our regular schedule. Remember, we’re picking this up again on the next stream, so have your questions ready! Question ten,” he says, his tone positively giddy, “from humerousskelefun.”

Your blood runs cold.

That’s Sans’s Twitter handle. He only ever uses Twitter to post bad jokes and memes, so it’s especially weird that he’s bothering to participate in Mettaton’s game.

“The question is…” Mettaton pauses dramatically, “‘Was your crush in the Halloween video?’”

You want to fucking perish. You can’t even look out into the crowd - you think you saw him earlier and you definitely don’t want to meet his gaze right now. He knows. There’s no way he doesn’t know. That question is way too on target for him not to know. You bury your face in your hands again.

“Yes,” you moan, your voice a little muffled.

Mettaton shrieks with joy. “Oh, we’re getting close, everyone! Remember to tune in next time for the exciting conclusion! Now for our musical break!”

The AV crew cuts the feed and switches to the static break graphic. Mettaton pats your shoulder in what you assume is supposed to be a reassuring gesture, but it just makes you more upset.

“You did fantastic, darling!” he assures you.

You let out a defeated wail. You wanna cry. You wanna throw a tantrum right here on stage so he’ll feel awful about putting you in this position.

Instead, you just get up and storm out.

* * *

 

You spend a day wallowing in your embarrassment before you realize you need to get ahead of this before the next stream airs. You're currently not on speaking terms with Yves, not after she lured you into the filming room, so you're not even able to ask her for advice. She's messaged you and tried to catch you in the break room, but you've ignored her.

It’s clear to you that Sans knows, and at this point it’s more of a formality than anything, but it still seems wrong to you that he find out you have feelings for him because a bunch of strangers guessed it on Mettaton’s show. Besides, Mettaton is almost certainly going to pull him on stage, and you want him to at least have fair warning before it happens.

Something no one gave you, you think bitterly.

You send Papyrus a DM on twitter, asking for directions to Sans’s lab. You’ve never been to visit him at work, so you don’t know the way. He sends you a fairly long set of steps leading you through several hallways and doors before following up with an apology. His caps lock key appears to be stuck, as always.

 

**CoolSkeleton95**

ARE YOU GOING TO TALK TO SANS ABOUT THE THING?

**CoolSkeleton95**

I’M SORRY FOR GETTING INVOLVED AND MAYBE BEING AN OVERBEARING BROTHER. SANS WON’T TALK TO ME ABOUT THESE THINGS SO I DON’T KNOW HOW HE FEELS, BUT I THINK YOU’RE A GOOD INFLUENCE ON HIM!

**CoolSkeleton95**

PLEASE BE PATIENT WITH HIM. HE’S NOT SO GOOD WITH PEOPLE SOMETIMES, UNLIKE ME.

 

You don’t reply. It’s a little reassuring that he approves of your crush, but you wish he’d just stayed out of it.

During your lunch break, you trudge through the sterile, white hallways. No wonder Sans had been feeling depressed about his job. It’s so sterile and featureless here.

Finally you reach a nondescript door with a little nameplate that reads “sans” on it. No capital letters. You wonder if it’s a typo or if Sans requested it be spelled that way. You knock.

His muffled voice calls out, “Door’s open.”

You poke your head in and look around before stepping in fully.

The place is a total mess, but you’re not really surprised. There’s what looks like a bunch of star charts pinned all over the left wall. The right wall is occupied by a massive whiteboard with a bunch of complicated equations and illegible notes scrawled on top of each other. Basically all of this stuff is way out of your depth, and you suddenly wonder exactly how smart Sans really is. He comes off as just a lovable doofus, but looking at this room, it’s clear that’s just one facet of his personality.

At the back of the room is a massive table overflowing with papers and books. Sans is seated there on an uncomfortable looking stool, looking very small in comparison. There’s a beanbag chair in the corner - you wonder why he’s not sitting on that instead.

He turns around with a sour expression, which looks really weird on his usually smiling face. It smooths out quickly when he realizes who’s visiting him, though. He seems genuinely surprised to see you, but not upset. “Hey,” he says, gently. “S’not often that I get visits in the lab.”

“Yeah, um,” you mutter, giving him a nervous smile, “Sorry if I’m interrupting. I just had something I wanted to say in person. To you. About the thing, from the stream last week. The crew member I have a crush on. I can come back later if it’s a bad time.”

If he knows what you’re talking about, it doesn’t show on his face at all. You’re sure he must know. It’s so obvious. But he just sits there, grins nervously, shakes his head, and looks at you blankly, waiting for you to finish.

“Look, you probably know what I’m going to say,” you tell him, heaving a sigh and shifting your gaze off to the side. “I just… I thought you should know. Like, I needed to tell you personally. It didn’t seem right for you to hear about it at the same time as hundreds of thousands of random people online.”

Sans’s brow furrows and his grin falters. “Uhh. Shouldn’t you be telling Papyrus this?”

You gawk at him. “Papyrus?”

“Yeah,” he says, his voice flat. If he was joking, you’d hear the lilt in his voice that gives away that he’s trying not to laugh. “Someone you’re friends with, someone handsome, someone from the Halloween video, someone who makes you laugh… It’s Pap, right?”

You stare.

He looks uncomfortable, and now he’s the one averting his gaze. “I don’t care if you guys get together. I had a feeling you might like him before this anyway.” He pauses. “Or are you here to ask if he’s interested? ‘Cuz I’m actually… not sure. He hasn’t mentioned it.” Another pause. “Sorry for, um, the last question. I think I kinda outed you. I didn’t think Mettaton would actually ask that one.”

“Wh - no!” you exclaim. Your face feels really warm. You really didn’t expect to have to spell this out for him. You thought this was going to be easy - you walk in, you bring up the crush thing, he turns you down politely, you take the hit to your self esteem, and you go home to eat ice cream while feeling sorry for yourself.

A tiny, pathetic part of yourself even thought Yves might have been right from the start. That he might’ve had feelings for you, too.

“Uhh,” he says, frowning, clearly dumbfounded.

You manage to force the words out somehow. “It’s not _Papyrus_ , it’s _you_.”

His face goes slack, his sockets wide and round.

“Oh…” he says, slowly, his voice low. “I…”

“It’s okay,” you assure him. Your throat feels tight and your stomach is churning. “Um, you don’t have to say anything if you don’t want to. I get it, if like, you’re not interested…”

Sans’s gaze is planted firmly on the ground. He looks alarmed, like a trapped animal. That’s pretty much all the answer you need.

“I just wanted to tell you myself,” you tell him. “Instead of, y’know. Mettaton. I’m sorry that you got wrapped up in this, you’re probably gonna get pulled into the stream tomorrow. I can’t imagine everyone going another ten questions without figuring it out.”

“Right,” he says, sounding awkward. “Um, thanks. It’s okay. Suppose everyone gets their turn putting up with Mettaton’s matchmaking eventually.”

“Right,” you agree. You shift your weight on your feet, wanting to bolt. “Sooo… that’s all, um, I guess. I’ll talk to you later? We’re, um, we’re still cool, right?”

“Yeah,” he says, still sounding pretty shell-shocked. “Yeah, ‘course.”

“Cool,” you choke out before abruptly fleeing the room.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HEY HOW ABOUT THAT "SURVEY" HUH GUYS


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> first half of this chapter is sans's pov

Recently Sans has been riding home with his brother as sort of a family bonding time, but he doesn’t really feel up to that right now. He shoots Papyrus a quick text and takes a shortcut home.

He concentrates on being home as he grabs the door handle. He steps out of the door of his lab and through the front door of the modest apartment he and Papyrus share, into the living room. He doesn’t have to shortcut this way - he can leave any time he’s out of sight - but doors are easier. He grabs a snack cake from his secret stash of “Foods Papyrus Doesn’t Approve Of” from the kitchen’s lower corner cabinet that Papyrus never uses, then makes a beeline for his bedroom.

Man, he thinks, quickly unwrapping the cake and shoving the whole thing into his mouth at once as he flops on his bed. Wow, he really fucked this one up, huh?

How did he get it so backwards? He was _so_ sure you had a thing for Pap. It’s weird that you’re into a monster at all, but if you had to be into one, it makes sense to him that it’d be Papyrus. He at least meets some typical human standards. Tall, confident, charismatic, athletic, a strong jaw.

Sans is pretty sure he read somewhere that a strong jaw was a good thing on human males.

Sans is not any of those things. Sans is short and kinda dumpy. He doesn’t know how he ended up with more friends than Papyrus in the Underground - maybe because he hides behind self-deprecating humor. Sans is only good at making lots of shallow friendships. Papyrus is the one who’s actually good at keeping close friends.

And no wonder, when this is how well Sans copes with anything more complex than cracking jokes.

He feels awful for freezing on you like that. He didn’t even give you a real reply, just kinda stammered and looked like an idiot. Fuck. You probably hate him now.

He wipes crumbs off his mouth with his sleeve and pulls his phone from the pocket of his shorts. Should he text you? Give you some closure? He doesn’t have his work IM on his phone, but he got your number while you were planning the Halloween video. Everyone did, in case they had to cancel short notice or something.

He pulls up a new text window and stares at the blinking cursor in the text box.

What’s he supposed to say? “Whoopsy doopsy, I totally blew it and ruined our friendship, please forgive me”?

He drops his phone on the bed and stares at the ceiling instead.

He doesn’t have anything to say because he has no idea how he feels about you.

He obviously _likes_ you. You’re easy to talk to, you’re talented, you’re funny. Maybe once or twice he’s idly considered holding your hand or taking you out to dinner. Or just felt like hanging around you all the time. Or wanted to watch movies with you. Wanted to lay in bed with you on sleepy mornings. Lay _on_ you.

Not in a weird way. You just look soft and comfortable to lay on.

Those… aren’t that different from the kind of fantasies he used to entertain when he had it bad for Toriel, now that he thinks about it.

That makes him feel sort of sick. He doesn’t know why, but he doesn’t like knowing that. He’s not disgusted by you, so he’s not sure why he feels like his soul is gonna tear itself out of his body. He’s pretty sure it means he shouldn’t pursue anything with you, though. He doesn’t remember feeling this bad about his crush on Toriel until after she rejected him.

He picks up his phone again. Stares at the blinking cursor.

Would a simple “sorry” suffice?

He types it out, stares at it.

No, that looks really pathetic and insincere. He erases it. Stares at the blinking cursor some more.

You think he’s handsome, he remembers. You’d said it kind of sarcastically, but if you actually didn’t think he was handsome, you would’ve just said no. You think he’s funny and handsome and you really, sincerely care about him because he’s your friend.

He rolls over, burying his face in his mattress, and groans.

He lays like that for a long time.

Papyrus comes home after a while, barging in and passive-aggressively making a bunch of noise in the kitchen. He must be upset that Sans skipped their regular bonding time. He should probably apologize.

He hides the snack cake wrapper under his bed and shuffles out of his room.

“Hi, Pap,” he says.

Papyrus makes an angry noise of acknowledgement.

“Sorry I didn’t ride home with you, bud,” Sans adds.

Papyrus drops a pot on the stove with a loud clatter. “That is NOT what I’m upset about, Sans.”

“Uhh…” Sans says, at a loss.

Papyrus fixes him with a glare, pulling his phone of the messenger bag he’d plopped on the counter when he came home. “Do you know how upset you’ve made our friend, Sans?”

“Oh.”

“‘Oh,’ indeed,” Papyrus says, bitterly, tossing his phone down on the counter. Sans clambers onto one of the stools by the counter and sits down to look at it. Papyrus has pulled up a text conversation.

 

**Pap - 1:04 PM**

I’M SORRY IF I’M BEING OVERBEARING AGAIN BUT YOU DID NOT RESPOND TO MY DM!! HOW DID IT GO? ARE YOU AND SANS COURTING NOW?

**SANS’S BESTIE - 3:43 PM**

pap he’s not interested please stop asking

**Pap - 3:47 PM**

WHAT? WHAT HAPPENED??? YOU TWO GET ALONG SO WELL!

**SANS’S BESTIE - 3:55 PM**

i told him i had a stupid crush on him and he didnt really say anything but it was obvious he was grossed out so i left

**Pap - 3:59 PM**

THAT DOESN’T SOUND RIGHT. I KNOW HE DOESN’T THINK YOU’RE GROSS. MAYBE HE WAS ONLY SURPRISED!

**SANS’S BESTIE - 4:21 PM**

he doesnt like me and thats fine, please can we leave it alone

**Pap - 4:29 PM**

I’M GOING TO TALK TO HIM!!! IT SEEMS LIKE HE WASN’T VERY NICE ABOUT YOUR CONFESSION!

**SANS’S BESTIE - 4:33 PM**

papyrus no please stay out of it

**SANS’S BESTIE - 4:35 PM**

this isn’t middle school i can handle someone rejecting me

**SANS’S BESTIE - 4:38 PM**

papyrus im serious, don’t

**Pap - 4:50 PM**

DON’T WORRY, I WILL HANDLE MY BROTHER! 8-)

**SANS’S BESTIE - 4:52 PM**

oh jesus christ

 

Sans gets to the bottom of the messages and puts his head in his hands. “Shit,” he mutters.

“Language,” Papyrus reminds him sternly, before carrying on. “Even if you were surprised, Sans, leaving our friend hanging is very rude!”

“I didn’t know what to say,” Sans replies, rubbing at his sockets with the balls of his hands. If he didn’t feel bad before, he sure does now. He’s never seen you beg to drop a subject like that.

“Don’t you like your friend?” Papyrus asks.

“Shit, bro…” Sans drops his head to the counter, his forehead making a sickening crack against the granite. Papyrus grunts but lets the cuss word slide. “I don’t know. Of course I _like_ \- but not, like, like _that_ \- “

“This is because of what happened with Toriel, isn’t it?” Papyrus accuses.

“S’got nothin’ to do with Tori,” Sans lies. He can tell by the pang that strikes his soul that Papyrus is at least partially correct.

He tries really, really hard to never think about what happened with Toriel.

After he’d told her he had feelings for her, they’d gone on a date. She’d seemed… interested. She at least didn’t outright reject him. She laughed at his jokes and they had a nice time together. Sans had thought he had a chance.

At the end of the date, she’d told him she just didn’t feel a spark between them.

He’d had relationships before, but he’d never pined for someone before like he did with Toriel. He’d long since accepted her decision, but things felt a little weird with her ever since.

Papyrus crosses his arms and huffs. “I think it does. Even though your friend is the one confessing, you’re afraid it’s going to end like -”

“Stop,” Sans groans.

“No!” exclaims Papyrus. He looks a little hurt. “We never talk about these things! It’s not fair! We’re brothers, I’m allowed to want to know how you’re feeling!”

Sans grunts. Papyrus huffs again, looking away.

“It’s not just the thing with Tori,” Sans admits after a moment. “I really don’t know how I feel. I don’t know them that well.”

“Isn’t that what dating is for?” Papyrus asks, sounding calmer now that Sans is actually talking. “Figuring out if you’re right for each other?”

Sans winces. “I guess.”

“But you don’t want to try, because you like being friends,” Papyrus guesses. “Because if it ends like the thing with Toriel, you don’t know when it’ll stop feeling weird.”

Sans considers this for a moment. It makes him feel sick again. “Maybe,” he admits. “Yeah, I guess so.”

Papyrus lets out a long, world-weary sigh. “I guess that’s not a terrible reason.” He gets to work busying himself around the kitchen, getting ready to make dinner. “But it’s going to be weird now anyway, since Mettaton got involved and practically forced them to confess! You should at least think about it and give our friend a proper answer. Or tell them you’re unsure. What you did, just saying nothing, wasn’t nice.”

“Yeah,” Sans agrees. “Sorry, bro.”

“Don’t say sorry to _me_ ,” Papyrus fires back. “Say it to them.”

* * *

 

Sans waits too long to say it. The date of the next stream sneaks up on him while he’s too busy wallowing in guilt and fretting over what to say. He’s avoided you completely during that time.

Papyrus is pretty cross with him and has been giving him the silent treatment for a couple days, but he’s more worried about you.

Sans and Papyrus both go to watch the stream live. Sans figures it’d be worse for you if Mettaton calls him up on the stage and he’s not even there.

Though, if he does get called up, he has no idea what he’s going to say. He should probably be worried about that, but he’s not. He’s going to look like an ass no matter what, he’s sure, so what’s it matter?

Sans barely listens to the questions now that he knows what the ultimate answer is. He just knows you look totally defeated as you answer them. He feels incredibly stupid and shitty, watching idly as you suffer through this. He doesn’t like seeing you this way. It makes him feel far more sick than thinking about the thing with Toriel, or thinking about things being “weird’ between the two of you.

You get more and more upset as Mettaton keeps pressing. You’re stammering more, your voice wavering. Sans glances at the livechat feed - half the people commenting are already guessing that it’s him. Mettaton is drawing this out for the drama.

He looks back to the stage. He doesn’t really hear what Mettaton’s saying, just watches you. You glance at him and he accidentally meets your gaze. Your face is red and your eyes are glazed over and he honestly doesn’t know how you’ve put up with the questions for this long, but suddenly, you crumple.

For a split second he can see your face break before you lurch forward, curling into yourself and letting out a huge sob.

Mettaton stops in the middle of his sentence, shell-shocked. Then he turns to the camera crew, a look of clear alarm on his face.

“Turn off the cameras. Cut the feed, now.”

“But -”

“I SAID CUT THE FEED,” he snarls.

The AV crew scrambles to put up the musical break graphic way ahead of schedule as Mettaton does a complete 180, calmly trying to hush you as he leads you off stage. Your face is screwed up as you bawl, your eyes closed, so Mettaton has his arm around you as he guides you away from the cameras and into the makeup room where you can have some semblance of privacy.

Sans looks at Papyrus, who has a look of total shock on his face. Sans feels like his soul is going to completely drop out of his body and through the floor. Watching someone cry is always uncomfortable, but watching you melt down on stage is as bad as the time when Papyrus was little and he came home crying because some other kid said something cruel.

The worst part is that he knows this is, at least partly, his fault.

He can hear you shakily trying to catch your breath and explaining something in a warbled voice over the concerned murmurs of the crew. He would gladly turn to dust right now if it meant you’d stop crying.

There’s no recovering from this anyway. This is an irreversible fuckup. He should’ve gone to talk to you days ago instead of ignoring you. He would’ve, if he wasn’t a sadsack coward. A cold wave of dread washes over him when he realizes how poorly he’s treated you.

He is so fucking stupid.

“SANS,” Mettaton yells, suddenly slamming open the makeup room door. “GET OVER HERE.”

Sans is dimly aware of himself shuffling over. He feels like he’s not even really inhabiting his own body. He steps through the door into the makeup room. Mettaton closes it behind him.

He glances up at the furious Mettaton, at you shaking and red-faced, before looking back down at his feet.

* * *

 

You watch Sans carefully.

He looks… kind of like he might cry.

You’ve really never seen him look quite so miserable. There are dark rings around his sockets, which you can only assume means he hasn’t been sleeping well. There’s sweat on his forehead and his posture is even more slumped than usual.

“Is what they're telling me true?” Mettaton demands, his hands on his hips. “They came to you and you didn’t even give them the courtesy of an _answer_ -”

“Don’t you yell at him!” you choke out, panicked. Your voice catches on every couple of words and you hate that. You hate that you’re crying in front of everyone like this. You’re so _angry_. “Th-this is your fault, too! Y-you did this!” You sniffle loudly, clenching your fists at your sides. “I di-didn’t want this! Neither d-did he!” You take a couple of gulping breaths before shouting, “I have half a mind to quit right fucking now!”

Mettaton looks completely floored, as though somehow he seriously didn’t expect this reaction. “Darling - I’m really so sorry, I thought you were only playing along… If I’d known -”

“You shoulda ASKED me first!” you wail.

“You’re right,” Mettaton says, looking genuinely abashed for the first time that you can ever remember. “I’m so sorry. I got carried away. I just thought - I really did think it was going to have a happy ending, darling.”

“Well it _doesn’t_ !” You take a shaky breath. You must look completely hysterical. Everyone was staring at you. You cried _on stream_.

You tried to get out of doing the second stream but you couldn’t get ahold of Mettaton that week and you were afraid of the consequences if you didn’t just show up. Until recently, you’ve loved this job, and it’s not like you could find another job on such short notice.

You honestly thought you could take it because Sans had already rejected you. You thought you’d go on and answer the questions and he’d be called on stage and he’d say, “sorry, we’re just pals,” and you’d say, “aw, that’s okay, good buddy,” and that’d be the end of it.

But you couldn’t handle it. You couldn’t take the questions, and everyone gossiping about you, and not being able to trust Yves anymore, and you saw Sans in the audience and just fucking lost it.

“Is there anything I can do to make it up to you?” he asks. Remorse is a weird tone coming from Mettaton.

You glance at Sans. He looks shocked, staring up at you with wide sockets.

Mettaton gasps softly. “Let’s finish the show,” he suggests.

You furrow your brow at him, sniffling unattractively again. “Whu - what?”

“The show,” he says again, starting look excited. “Let me go back on air and apologize for taking things too far. Then we can bring Sans on and have him give you a proper reply to your confession.”

If Sans had a digestive tract, you think he’d probably be shitting himself. He looks like he wants to disappear.

“Why? Just to humiliate me further?” you ask, your voice pitching up and threatening to devolve into hysterics again. Your face is so hot and you feel dizzy, like your head is a rocket about to blast right off your neck.

“No, not at all!” Mettaton insists. “Look, no matter what Sans or I say up there, we’re going to look like total jerks. You’ll look great by comparison! No one will be talking about you running off stage if they’re too busy talking about the two fools who made you cry in the first place.”

You frown at him. “That’s a terrible idea.”

He pouts at you. “At least let me do the apology.”

You take a deep breath. “Okay, yeah. The apology would be nice actually. But I - I still don’t know that I can work here anymore, after this. This past week has been awful.”

Mettaton surprises you again by looking crushed. He actually deflates, hunching his shoulders like a wounded animal. It looks weird on the guy you’ve never seen with less than perfect posture. “Well… If that’s what you decide, lovely, then of course I’ll respect that. But I hope you take some time to think about it. I’d be happy to give you paid leave while you decide.” He pauses. “I really didn’t do this to make you miserable, darling, I hope you know that.”

You make a noncommittal noise. A week ago you’d have never doubted that, but now…

“Actually, well, I was so sure this was going to end with the two of you together,” he continues, shooting a glare at Sans, “that I bought you two week-long cruise tickets as a gift. You’re welcome to still have them, they’re non-refundable anyway.”

“Oh,” you say, a little struck. He was really that sure this was going to work out? “Um, if it’s okay, I guess so.”

“Of course!” He sends yet another look in Sans’s direction. “Feel free to give the second ticket to whoever you like, since someone -”

“Stop that,” you scold him angrily. “It’s not his fault if he doesn’t feel the same way I do.”

“About that,” Sans says, finally speaking. His voice sounds a little off, like he’s got something stuck in his nonexistent throat. “If we’re all apologizing… I’m sorry, too. I… I just froze, when you told me. I should’ve come to talk to you earlier, but I didn’t, because I’m a moron. It’s not that I don’t like you -”

“You don’t have to do this,” you say, forcefully interrupting him. He sounds strained, and it makes you think he’s not really that sincere. You don’t like how interested Mettaton looks, either.

Sans is about to say something else, but stops, thinks better of it. He looks away. “I guess it doesn’t mean much now that I let it get this far. You, uh… you deserve better.”

Mettaton’s excited expression drops into one of disappointment.

Weirdly, you feel a little better now that you’ve had an angry cry and that you’ve settled things with Sans. That’ll probably change later when the reality of everything sets in, but for now, it’s a small mercy. You wipe away the remnants of tears with the back of your hand. “Um, if we’re all done,” you say, “I think I just wanna get going. I can watch the apology later on the YouTube channel.”

“I’ll have someone edit the upload of the stream so that the Love Match segment is cut out,” Mettaton assures you. “It’ll start with the apology. The tickets are digital, I’ll email them to you.”

“Cool. Um. I’m gonna… go.” You look at the door. Everyone is gonna totally stare as you leave, so you start to mentally brace yourself for it now.

You walk out, eyes firmly planted on the ground as you make your way to the hallway, refusing to glance behind you at Mettaton or Sans or look up at any of your coworkers. You hear someone call your name and start to walk after you - Papyrus, maybe - but you just ignore it and head to your desk. Mercifully, the office is empty.

You scavenge a box from one of your drawers and pack up your things. Your face gets hot as you feel tears pricking at the corners of your eyes again. You told Mettaton you’d think about it, but it really feels like your decision has been made already. You can’t possibly come back here. You’d be a laughingstock. You can’t trust any of your new friends.

You pick up the model of the solar system that Sans gave you. You wonder if you should just trash it. Throw it in the metal basket by your desk. Maybe Sans would see it. Maybe he’d feel bad.

You’re pretty sure he already feels bad, though.

You put it in the box with your other things instead.

You’re going on that cruise and you’re bringing your laptop so you can spend it applying to a new job.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this chapter and the next one are going to be mostly texts and dialogue. whoops! hope youre into that!
> 
> as always, thanks for the nice comments!! hopefully this one eases the sting of the last two chapters a lil

You sit in a lounge chair on the cruise deck and sip a mimosa.

You ended up not bringing anyone with you on the cruise. You need the alone time.

You’d spent the first whole day of the cruise doing absolutely fucking nothing. Just sitting around, looking at the water, reading a book or doodling or playing games on a handheld console. You didn’t open your laptop once and kept your phone off all day long. The day before that, too, you barely touched the internet, too busy with packing and feeling sorry for yourself.

The time and distance from the whole situation has given you some perspective. It’s still totally fucked up what happened, but you can see a little clearer now that most everyone probably had your best interests at heart. They were just terribly, terribly misguided.

You’re also a lot less upset with Sans.

It really isn’t his fault if he doesn’t like you back. And he reacted poorly, but if he honestly thought you were crushing on his  _ brother _ , you can’t see yourself doing much better if you were in his shoes. 

You don’t feel totally okay yet, but you are a little more at peace with the whole fiasco.

Your laptop is sitting in front of you now. It’s probably about time to connect with the world again. You open it up, turn it on, and connect to the cruise ship’s wifi.

Your IM boots up on launch. You have 145 messages. Hm. That’s more than you expected.

You turn on your phone. 264 missed texts. Jesus.

You open your web browser and log into Facebook. 86 messages. Okay, that’s more reasonable.

You log into Twitter.

_ You have thousands of notifications. _

**_What the fuck?_ **

Alarmed, you start scrolling through all the notes. Most of them are other users @ing your handle, rather than people liking or retweeting your tweets.

 

“i cant believe @realmtt did that to you! disgusting! you have every right to sue him.”

“We’re all hoping you come back to MTTFeed! You’re one of my fave content creators!”

“you can do better than that guy anyway @realmtt why not set her up with a real man?”

“gross monsterfucker, go fuck yourself”

“I loved your Halloween vid. Please come back!!!”

“i hope you have a good vacation but i also really really hope you keep making videos and stuff, if its on your own or for another company. i think you’re really funny.”

 

You’ve had people who liked your videos @ you with compliments before, but nothing on this scale. There was an odd hate comment thrown in here and there, but the vast majority were positive and expressing sympathies regarding how Mettaton had treated you.

You go to check the upload of the livestream on YouTube. Had it blown up or something? You never actually bothered to watch Mettaton’s apology. You knew someone would reupload the part of the stream that got cut and you didn’t want to risk seeing a thumbnail of yourself breaking down in tears while it was still a fresh wound.

True to his word, it starts out right away with Mettaton, alone, facing the camera and apologizing.

“Hello everyone. As you may have already seen, today I went too far in the name of entertainment, and hurt one of my talented employees. I’m so sorry for…”

Your eyes slide down to the view count and you immediately tune Mettaton out when you see it has millions of views. A couple of the recommended videos are discussions on your breakdown and the ethics of Mettaton’s Love Match segment. You quickly exit out of the tab.

Holy shit, you think. Your story has gone fucking viral.

You take a few deep breaths and compartmentalize the thoughts about your new e-fame to a darker corner of your brain. Everyone seems to know you’re on vacation, so you can worry about dealing with that later. There’s no use doing anything about it right now. Frankly, you’d rather not deal with it  _ ever _ , but can if you have to.

You’re a content creator. You’ve had people make nasty reviews of some of your videos before. You’ve had people say nasty things about you as a person. This is messier than what you’ve dealt with before because it’s more personal, but you don’t seem to be getting any genuine death threats yet, so you can handle this.

Besides, practically every YouTuber has had a public meltdown at some point, right?

You check your text messages. Most of them are from your friends - ex-friends? Former coworkers? You’re not sure yet.

There’s a lot from Papyrus. You scroll through them, skimming the text and skipping about half of the messages.

 

**Pap - 2 days ago, 7:34 PM**

I KNOW YOU ARE MAD AT HIM BUT I THINK SANS REALLY MISSES YOU AND HE FEELS VERY BAD. HE WON’T COME OUT OF HIS ROOM AND TALK TO ME.

**Pap - 2 days ago, 7:45 PM**

I THINK HE’S CRYING. IT’S HARD TO TELL BECAUSE I HAVEN’T HEARD HIM CRY IN A LONG TIME.

**Pap - 2 days ago, 8:34 PM**

I HOPE YOU FORGIVE HIM SOON.

**Pap - Yesterday, 8:03 AM**

YOU HAVEN’T ANSWERED. ARE YOU ALSO MAD AT ME?

**Pap - Yesterday, 9:44 AM**

I’M SORRY. PLEASE DON’T BE MAD AT ME.

**Pap - Yesterday, 6:07 PM**

SANS STILL MISSES YOU AND FEELS VERY BAD. HE FINALLY CAME OUT OF HIS ROOM JUST NOW AND DIDN’T EVEN BOTHER TO HIDE THAT HE’S GETTING UNHEALTHY SNACKS FROM HIS SECRET STASH HE THINKS I DON’T KNOW ABOUT.

**Pap - Yesterday, 6:31 PM**

HAS HE MESSAGED YOU? I HOPE HE’S TALKING TO YOU. IT’S NOT GOOD FOR HIM TO NOT TALK TO ANYONE. HE GETS A SCARY KIND OF SAD WHEN HE DOESN’T TALK TO ANYONE.

**Pap - Today, 1:05 AM**

I MISS YOU. I HOPE YOU FORGIVE ME SOON. I’M REALLY SORRY.

 

You frown. Reading these makes you feel kind of bad. Out of everyone, Papyrus is probably the most blameless in this whole fiasco. You shoot him a quick text.

 

**You - 12:45 PM**

sorry pap. i’m not mad at you. just needed to spend a couple days disconnected from everyone to get my head on straight, so i didn’t see your messages til now.

 

He fires a text back almost immediately.

 

**Pap - 12:45 PM**

THAT’S GOOD! I’M GLAD! HAVE YOU TALKED TO SANS YET? HAS HE MESSAGED YOU?

 

You let that text sit while you go through the rest of your texts.

You actually do see Sans’s name near the top of the list, meaning he’s texted you the most recently besides Papyrus, but you don’t think you’re ready for that. You skip him and look at the couple of texts Undyne has sent you.

 

**Undyne - Yesterday, 7:35 PM**

HEY!!!!!!!!!!!! message papyrus back! he’s worried about you, idiot!!!

**Undyne - Yesterday, 7:45 PM**

his brother is a DUMBASS but hes just not good with people!!! so dont be mad at him too long

**Undyne - Yesterday, 9:03 PM**

HEY ANSWER MY MESSAGES TOO DUMMY!!!!!!!!!!!!

 

That’s more or less what you expected from her.

There’s some messages from your other coworkers, mostly well wishes, sympathy, and people saying they hope you come back. Then there’s several from Yves.

You sigh before you open them. You’re almost dreading these more than Sans’s.

 

**Yves - 2 days ago, 7:13 PM**

I know there’s nothing really I can say that can make this right and I know you don’t want to talk to me because you ignored me for like a week before you left but I’m seriously so, soooooooo sorry. Really. I know I messed up so bad. Mettaton asked me to do it and I know that’s not an excuse and I should’ve warned you but he told me not to! He PROMISED he’d get you two together and you seemed so bummed after the thing with the queen and her kid that I thought if anyone could make it happen he could

**Yves - 2 days ago, 7:38 PM**

I really did just want you to be happy!! You’re my best friend here!!! Or you were, I guess, if you don’t want to be my friend any more. That’s understandable. I know I totally betrayed you so I kinda deserve it. But I hope you give me another chance anyway.

**Yves - 2 days ago, 7:55 PM**

I know I’m being super annoying and I’ve pestered you enough so I’ll leave you alone now. I’m so sorry.

 

You don’t reply to her yet. You need to think about what you want to say. You do miss her. And you knew from the start that she didn’t do what she did to ruin your life. But she still crossed a boundary and lied to you.

You scroll back up the list and open the texts from Sans.

 

**sans - 2 days ago, 2:46 AM**

this is gonna sound incredibly stupid but i really am sorry

**sans - 2 days ago, 2:56 AM**

i didn’t say any of the things i meant to say before you left because you gave me an out and at the time taking it seemed like a good idea but now you’re gone and all i can think is that i didnt try hard enough to explain myself while you were here

**sans - 2 days ago, 3:00 AM**

this was a stupid idea. nvm

**sans - 2 days ago, 7:17 PM**

what did the skeleton say to the human?

**sans - 2 days ago, 7:17 PM**

“sorry for being a numbskull, please forgive me”

 

There’s a fairly long gap of time between that message and the next one.

 

**sans - Yesterday, 11:12 PM**

knock knock

**sans - Yesterday, 11:12 PM**

“whos there”

**sans - Yesterday, 11:13 PM**

orange

**sans - Yesterday, 11:13 PM**

“orange who”

**sans - Yesterday, 11:14 PM**

orange you glad you didnt have to take me and my bad jokes with you on your free cruise

**sans - Yesterday, 11:22 PM**

i keep thinking about how you packed up your stuff from your desk. pap told me. youre really not comin back huh.

**sans - Yesterday, 11:25 PM**

i also keep thinking about how fun it was to send you stupid shit in the middle of the day so i didnt have to look at the eight million papers on my desk and think about everything i have to do and how serious and boring my life is now and how you were the one thing that made it a little more bearable and how i drove away the one person besides pap that would indulge my dumb sense of humor

**sans - Yesterday, 11:31 PM**

i have the burnt remains of the volcano in my closet. i dug it out of the trash after the stream because i wanted to keep it. i have the digestion diagrams you did too and all the other stupid props we made

**sans - Yesterday, 11:38 PM**

i cant believe you were brave enough to just walk up and tell me flat out that you had feelings for me and i wasn’t even smart enough to say anything. just sat there like a lump because i dont understand my own feelings

**sans - Yesterday, 11:55 PM**

part of it is bc im am/was still hung up on tori and part of it is bc how would a monster and a human even go together anyway

**sans - Today, 12:01 AM**

you guys dont even mate the way we do

**sans - Today, 12:06 PM**

thats a dumb excuse. there are monsters who choose not to mate, i could’ve been one of those, it wouldve been worth it to have a shot at something

 

And then, finally, all the way at the bottom:

 

**sans - Today, 12:55 AM**

oh shit fuck i thought i could delete all that before you saw it but i think i was thinking of the im we use for work 

**sans - Today, 12:57 AM**

please dont read any of that.

 

Jesus Christ.

You put your phone down and lay back in the deck chair for a moment.

Something twists in your gut, but you’re not as upset as you thought you would be. What the hell is Sans saying, anyway? That he has feelings for you? It’s not really clear by his rambling, late night messages. The last few - what the fuck does he mean, _ mating _ \- indicate something romantic but the rest of his messages are all over the place.

Whatever the hell he’s talking about, it’s not what you were expecting. You were expecting radio silence on his end, actually. You’ve never seen him be emotionally vulnerable, so you assumed he’d be the type to cut and run whenever things got rocky. Maybe Papyrus talked him into sending you those first few texts.

You’re tired of this. You decide that the two of you have beaten about the bush long enough.

You text him back.

 

**You - 12:59 PM**

so, obviously i read all that

**You - 1:00 PM**

i don’t totally get what you were trying to say. you regret not taking a chance at dating me? you just miss me as a friend? you feel bad that we left things off so poorly? which is it?

 

While you’re at it, you send a message to Yves.

 

**You - 1:02 PM**

i know you weren’t trying to hurt me. but you’re right, it was a real shitty thing to do. i dunno. i miss you. but its gonna be awkward for a while, and no more getting involved in my love life unless i tell you its okay

 

Before you close your laptop, you notice you have an email from Mettaton. You ignore it, pack up your stuff, and decide to grab some lunch before the buffett puts the food away.

* * *

 

Sans groans as his phone beeps.

He doesn’t know what time it is and he’s not sure what day it is, either. He rolls over in bed and blindly gropes for his phone on his nightstand. It’s probably just Alphys or Papyrus making sure he hasn’t dusted yet.

He doesn’t know what possessed him to talk to Alphys yesterday. Maybe they were closer now that they work together. He’s not really sure. But it was her terrible idea to message you to get his feelings out and then delete it before you saw it. It would’ve worked if he’d messaged you through the right platform, but she hadn’t mentioned that detail.

His hand finally knocks up against his phone and he brings it up to his face, ready to half-jokingly tell Alphys how bad she is at advice. Instead, he finds himself blearily squinting at a message from you.

His soul lurches in fear and anxiety. He opens the text.

 

**punpal - 12:59 PM**

so, obviously i read all that

**punpal - 1:00 PM**

i don’t totally get what you were trying to say. you regret not taking a chance at dating me? you just miss me as a friend? you feel bad that we left things off so poorly? which is it?

 

Sans groans. Of course you read his stupid, sad rantings.

He types out several responses, discarding each of them halfway through.

“i dont know what i want. i guess all three of -” No. That’s not a good explanation.

“i just know that i miss you and -” No. That sounds even worse.

“i have no idea if our anatomies are compatible but i think id really like to bone -” No. That’s the worst one yet.

His phone pings as a new message from you pops up.

 

**punpal - 1:25 PM**

dude we both have iphones with imessage, you know i can see that you’re typing and stopping to erase whatever you wrote and then typing again, right?

 

Shit. He totally didn’t know that.

His phone pings again.

 

**punpal - 1:26 PM**

doing this over text is pretty silly, can you just call me when you’re ready to talk about this?

 

Shit. Shit, shit, shit.

He pulls up his contacts. Who does he ask for advice on this? Alphys? His bro? 

He scrolls to the bottom of the list. He has Yves’s number saved. He could call her. He doesn’t think she’s on speaking terms with you right now, but she still knows you, certainly better than Alphys and possibly better than Papyrus.

He considers this for a moment before dismissing it. There’s no way he can call someone he barely knows for help. He taps on Alphys’s number instead and calls her. She’s the only person he knows who’s more of a social disaster than he is, so at least she can’t judge him too much.

“Hello? Sans?” Alphys says. Her voice sounds slightly tinny and staticy, like there’s some kind of interference. Maybe she’s in the lab.

“They want me to call them,” Sans blurts out.

“Who?” Alphys asks, confused.

“The - the human, the one who, uh, had a crush on me.”

“Ohh,” she replies. “Well, that’s good! Right? Um, w-why… why are you calling me and not them?”

“Dunno what to say,” he says.

“Well… did you decide if you wanted to, y’know, take a shot at dating?”

Sans groans, curling in himself. This is hard. He doesn’t want to think about this. He wants to go back to sleep.

“Well, you should probably decide that before you call them,” Alphys says, gently.

“I want to,” Sans decides.

“But do you  _ really _ ?” she asks. “I mean, a-are you just saying that because you don’t want to lose them as a friend and you think it’s what they’d wanna hear?”

Sans groans again, louder this time. He hadn’t considered that. Is that what he’s doing? He doesn’t want to do that to you. It wouldn’t be fair. “I don’t know,” he admits.

Alphys sighs. “I know you’re not totally sure how you feel about them, but, um, do you at least wanna figure it out? Like, when you think about dating them, are you at least excited about it and about  _ potentially _ having feelings for them?”

Sans considers this.

He doesn’t know if he’s excited about the idea of having intense feelings for  _ anyone _ , but if he had to pick someone, he’d probably pick you. He certainly likes the idea of being close to you. The past two days, while he was wallowing in his room, he’d spent an unreasonable and unhealthy amount of time imagining what it would be like to hold you and be held by you. What it would be like to be doted on by you.

What it would’ve been like if he could’ve comforted you instead of standing there like an idiot while you cried.

“Yes,” he answers, honestly.

“You… should probably just tell them that,” Alphys suggests.

Sans grunts. “Okay.”

“Umm… I know I’m not that good at this… D-did that help?”

“Kind of. Yeah.” Sans rolls onto his back, limbs splayed out as he stares at the ceiling. His wadded up blanket has gotten tangled around his feet. He kicks it away. “I’m gonna hang up now.”

“O-okay, good luck,” Alphys says before Sans hits the end call button.

Sans takes a moment to calm himself. The moment passes and he still doesn’t feel calm, so he just goes ahead and calls you anyway.

* * *

 

You’re heading back to your cabin when Sans calls. You stop, looking at your phone, then turn around and walk towards the less crowded portion of the deck. Your cabin doesn’t face out towards the ocean. You feel like this is gonna be a long talk and you’d like to look at the waves while you have it.

You accept the call while you pick out a chair to lounge in.

“Hi,” you say.

“Hey,” he says. He sounds exhausted.

You wait patiently for him to start talking.

After a long moment, he says, “I’m not good at this kind of thing.”

You snort. “Obviously.” It comes out more unkind than you meant it to.

He sighs. You sling your arm over the back of the lounge chair and stare at the ocean and the clouds. Man, it’s pretty out here. You’re lucky the weather is nice. It’s making even this awkward conversation feel kind of relaxing.

“Knock knock,” Sans says.

You fight the urge to let out a sigh yourself. “Really, dude?”

“Please,” he says, sounding a little desperate.

You consider it for a moment. “Okay, who’s there?”

“Ulna,” he says.

“Wow, bone jokes, real original,” you grumble. “Ulna who?”

“Ulna’t be disappointed if you give me a second chance.”

It’s not funny enough to make you laugh, but you crack a smile. “That was terrible.”

“Please don’t cut this tele-bone call short on account of my jokes,” he says.

You bark out a laugh. “That’s even lamer.”

“Sorry,” he says. He doesn’t sound sorry at all. If anything, he sounds relieved.

You fiddle with a loose string on your shorts. “I don’t understand what you were trying to say with those texts. You can’t send me stuff like that and not explain yourself.”

“You weren’t supposed to read them.” He sounds tired and defeated again.

“If I’d sent you a bunch of texts like that, would you have read them? You totally would’ve, right?”

“...Fair enough,” he concedes.

You wait another moment. “You still aren’t explaining.”

“I don’t know what to tell you,” he says. You can hear something that sounds like sheets rustling and bed springs creaking. He’s probably lying in bed. “I just wish this had all gone down differently.”

You’re getting nowhere fast. “Um, okay, then what was up with that comment about mating?” you ask.

He makes a noise like he’s being strangled. “That’s - it was late, I wasn’t thinking clearly.”

You don’t really buy that it was a totally isolated thought of his, but okay. “But you thought about it. And you’re obviously not okay with just leaving things as they are now. Sooo… what do you want to happen from here?”

He’s quiet for a long time. “I’m… I’m not okay with leaving it like this, but…” He lets out a frustrated sigh. “I don’t know that I can give you the kind of answer you want.”

You take a deep breath. “Look, I’m not any good at this kind of thing either,” you tell him, “so can I just be super blunt?”

“Sure.”

You’ve been thinking about this a lot the past couple of days. How everything took such a sudden downhill spiral, how it got this bad. That’s probably the only reason you’re not totally freaking out over this conversation right now. Having two days to be almost completely alone with your thoughts has allowed you to work things out in your head.

“I think this whole thing got blown way out of proportion. By everyone. Mostly by Mettaton, but also by Yves, and Papyrus, and you, and me.” You curl your legs up close to your body, gazing at the horizon. You can hear a family chattering loudly nearby, but they feel very far away. Sans feels far away, too. It feels like it’s just you and the sky and the ocean. “Everyone’s been talking about my stupid crush like I’m head over heels for you. Obviously we had some kind of chemistry if everyone thought it was gonna work out. But we don’t know each other that well, it’s not like I’m madly in love with you or something and I certainly don’t expect you to be in love with me. So can you just, like… stop worrying about saying the right thing? We’re so far past that now. I just wanna know what you’re thinking.”

“I - Uhh. Okay. Okay, give me a minute.” There’s a lot more scuffling and bed creaking noises before he speaks up again. You can kind of hear footsteps, like he’s pacing around his room. “I’m not sure if there’s a specific word for how I feel about you. But I’ve thought about…” He pauses, and his voice sounds really strained. “Thought about some not entirely platonic scenarios. With you. So, uhh, there’s that. I don’t - Ultimately, I’m not sure what kind of relationship I want. But it’s not… whatever this is. Whatever we’re doing now. What we’re doing now sucks.”

Well, you can agree on that last point.

You watch the clouds slowly shift into different shapes. You can’t look at the waves right now. Your heart is beating entirely too fast all of a sudden and it makes you want to take a flying leap overboard.

You must be quiet for a long time because Sans prompts you, warily, “Uhh, you there?”

“Yeah, sorry,” you say, snapping out of your trance. “I’m impressed. I think that’s the most you’ve ever said to me without trying to diffuse the conversation with a joke.”

“Should I go back to doing that?” he asks. He still sounds kind of anxious. “What do you call a fish with no eye?”

You know this one. “A  _ fsh _ .”

“Heh heh.”

There’s something that’s still kinda bugging you. You decide to just ask. “What was the thing with Toriel?”

He makes another strangled noise. “We tried not being platonic and found out those feelings were one sided. My side, specifically.” His words are kind of clipped. It’s clear he doesn’t like talking about this.

“That… explains a lot,” you say.

He grunts.

“Where do you wanna go from here?” you ask again. “We can try, um, whatever not entirely platonic things you were considering. You don’t have to decide right now.”

“I want to,” he replies, far more quickly than you expected him to. “Uhh. If  _ you  _ want to. I know I really blew it before. You have every right to cut me out completely.”

“Honestly, at this point I don’t have a whole lot to lose, socially speaking. Sooo… okay.”

“Okay. Cool.”

“Cool.”

“Uh, should I tell you what I was thinking -”

“No,” you cut him off. He sounds like he’s liable to pass out and this conversation has already given you enough to digest. “We can discuss it over text later. I’ve got like five more days of solo cruise ship vacation to waste, so we have plenty of time.”

“Cool.” He sounds relieved. “Uhh. Are you coming back to MTTFeed?” he asks.

“Mmm. I don’t know yet,” you answer, honestly. You’re still considering it. A couple hours ago you were at a solid “no” but now you’re not so sure.

“Okay. Any last questions for me?”

You’ve only got one. “You really kept all our old props?”

“Yeah, most of ‘em,” he says. “I… like keeping that stuff. It was fun making it with you, and you’re good at that kind of thing. It seems like a waste to throw it away.”

“Do you have that baby toy? The animal noise one?”

Sans inhales sharply. “Yes, of course,” he says emphatically. “That’s one of my favorites. Hold on.”

You reminisce while you listen to the clattering sounds of Sans digging through piles of junk. The two of you had modified one of those plastic toys with pictures of animals and audio clips of someone making the corresponding noises. The week before you planned the bit with Sans, one of your coworkers, Burgerpants, had mispronounced the word “meme” on stream and become a meme himself. Obviously, after you got his permission to do it, you wanted to capitalize on it before the joke got stale.

“Found it,” he says, excitedly. You hear him smack the crappy plastic button and you’re treated to the spliced audio you made with the toy’s original audio and a clip from the stream.

“The cat goes:  _ MAY-MAY _ .”

You bust into laughter. “Fuck! That’s still so good.”

You can hear Sans chuckling. It’s a little awkward once the laughter dies down.

“Okay. Thanks for calling me,” you tell him. “I’m gonna go. Later.”

“Okay,” he agrees. “I’ll, uh, text you later.”

You hang up.

You have a lot to think about, but first you need a nap. That conversation has left you feeling incredibly drained now that your heart has stopped racing.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> if you were reading this before this chapter: please be aware that the rating has changed to Explicit and the tags have been updated
> 
> also i am posting this at 2am which is a good decision that i will not regret

Sans is relieved.

Things are definitely awkward with you, but that’s far preferable to what he was expecting. He expected you to hang up on him, to tell him to fuck off and never talk to him again.

He thought he’d feel the crushing weight of responsibility, the overwhelming fear of ruining the relationship looming over him.

Bizarrely, he doesn’t. You don’t expect him to return your feelings right away. And it’d be hard to sink lower than you ignoring him and not talking to him at all. There’s very little to lose. No stakes. 

He lays on his bed for hours, digesting this information as he hovers somewhere between daydreams and sleep. He thinks about doing more skits with you, about tinkering with dumb toys and making silly images together. He dreams about snuggling up next to you, about your warmth and softness and the way your shoulders shake a little when you laugh.

He rolls over, looks at the clock on his nightstand. It’s well into the afternoon now. He should probably let Papyrus know he’s okay.

He slips out of his room quietly. Papyrus is sitting on the couch anxiously looking at something on his phone, but his head snaps up when Sans’s door clicks shut.

“Sans! Hello!” he says, cheerfully but cautiously. It makes Sans feel a little bit like a skittish wild animal. “How… are you… feeling?”

“Uhh. Better,” Sans admits. “I called them.”

Papyrus looks excited. “And?”

“We’re gonna try… stuff,” he says, vaguely. He doesn’t know how much he wants to share about this situation, or even how much Papyrus would wanna know.

Papyrus leaps up. “YOU’RE DATING!!! YOU HAVE A DATEFRIEND!”

“No,” he says, quickly. Actually, come to think of it, are the two of you dating? He hasn’t gone on more than one date with someone in a long time. Can you be dating without having gone on a date yet? He doesn’t really remember how it works. “I don’t know,” he amends.

The taller skeleton totally ignores him, vaulting over the couch and grabbing his bag off the kitchen counter. “I’m gonna make something special for dinner to celebrate! I’m going to the store!”

Papyrus is out the door before Sans can say anything else.

He sighs. Well, at least Pap is happy.

He shuffles to the kitchen, pulling a bag of chips from his rapidly dwindling secret stash. He settles into the couch and turns on the TV, changing the channel to some sitcom he doesn’t really have to pay attention to before pulling out his phone.

He opens up his texts. You actually sent him something while he was napping.

 

**punpal - 3:56 PM**

hey no rush but when you’re ready to talk, can you msg me on IM or facebook or something? i have a pay-for-what-you-use texting plan and my bill this month is already gonna be astronomical.

 

He still doesn’t have his work IM on his phone, so he pulls up Facebook Messenger.

 

**sans:** hey

**punpal:** oh shit hey. i didn’t expect you to contact me so soon

**sans:** it can wait if youre busy

**punpal:** im like literally just in my room playing video games. im as not busy as a person can be

 

He laughs a little at that. He likes that you’re the kind of person who just sits around playing video games on a cruise. You’re chill.

You’re still typing though. He waits.

 

**punpal:** before we start tho, there’s something i need to say that i didn’t say on the phone earlier and i don’t think it’s cool if we do this before i say it. i’ve been thinking about it and i feel bad

**punpal:** i really dont blame you for what happened. like, freezing up cuz i put you on the spot is hardly the biggest sin in the world

**punpal:** i wish you’d come to me after to explain but its still not your fault that things got so crazy

**punpal:** im really sorry if me cutting you off the past few days made you feel worse. if its any consolation, i haven’t been talking to anyone bc i just needed to be alone

**punpal:** i was rereading your texts from before and like… im sorry i didn’t realize you were fucked up about what happened before now. i was so caught up in the mess and how shitty i felt that i didn’t think about how you might feel shitty too

 

Oh.

He didn’t expect this either.

 

**sans:** i thought you hated me tbh

**punpal:** i dont! i can honestly say ive never once hated you for any of this. but i can see why you’d think that since i never actually told you that

**punpal:**  i was just frustrated. i meant it when i said everyone, including me, blew this whole thing out of proportion

**punpal:** i’m guilty of not being honest about my feelings too, i guess

**sans:** how about we just both say we goofed it and call it even

**punpal:** i’m good with that if you are

**punpal:** turns out both of us are just kinda bad at this, huh

 

Sans feels the corners of his mouth twitch into a smile.

 

**sans:** heh

**sans:** so. should i start, or ?

**punpal:** umm! if you honestly feel ready to talk about it! if you’re still bummed out we can wait

 

He thinks about it.

He still feels bad for how everything happened. He still wishes he’d come and talk to you before everything exploded. It’s weird to hear that you blame him less than he blames himself.

Papyrus tells him sometimes that he’s too hard on himself. Even though initially his brother was mad at him for not giving you a real response, after seeing just how poorly Sans was coping, he’d backed off entirely and ended the silent treatment from before. So it’s possible Sans had been overestimating how badly he fucked up.

Besides, you wanted to move on, and he didn’t feel like looking a gift horse in the mouth.

 

**sans:** lets do it now

**sans:** im feeling better

**punpal:** okay cool. because im super curious what you meant by “not platonic scenarios”

 

This is the most awkward part, though. He doesn’t know how to explain himself without sounding pathetic or creepy. Papyrus would probably know what to say. He’d probably just announce exactly what he wanted loudly and clearly and it wouldn’t even sound lame because it’s Pap.

 

**sans:** so. ive been kind of thinking about cuddling

 

He cringes. That looks super weird. But he can’t think of anything better so he just takes a deep breath and hits send.

 

**punpal:** are you fucking kidding me

 

His soul lurches. Oh no. Did you not like that? Was that creepy to say? Are you mad at him now? Maybe you think he’s gross. Why would you wanna touch him anyway, he looks kind of like your insides and that’s probably nasty -

 

**punpal:** sans im gonna mcfreaking lose it

 

Oh. You’re just joking. You wouldn’t say “McFreaking” if you were serious. He relaxes.

 

**punpal:** after that mating comment i totally thought you were gonna say something x-rated, i cant believe you just wanted to cuddle

 

The room suddenly feels really warm.

He hasn’t  _ not  _ thought about something more explicit than that. But he can’t just say that to you.

 

**sans:** im not sure were in a position for anything more than that

 

That’s a safe enough response. It’s certainly true and it doesn’t give away whether he’s actually thought about it or not.

 

**punpal:** that’s true.

**punpal:** but thats it? just cuddling?

 

He taps away at his phone, engrossed. The TV is barely even background noise by now.

 

**sans:** i mean. other stuff too. nonphysical

**punpal:** like what?

 

Ugh. So many questions.

 

**sans:** im rethinking my decision to do this now

**punpal:** haha

**punpal:** im serious, if the wound is too fresh we can wait

**sans:** i dont want to stop talking to you

 

He feels his face heat up. Shit. He got too into the conversation and sent that without thinking about how it sounded.

 

**punpal:** who said we have to stop? we’re allowed to talk about something else entirely if you want

**punpal:** whatcha up to?

**sans:** watchin tv

**punpal:** what show?

 

He looks up as he finally tears open his bag of chips and shoves a handful in his mouth. This show doesn’t look familiar and he doesn’t recognize any of the actors. He’s not really up to date with human pop culture, beyond memes he sees on Twitter - he sort of just watches whatever’s on or whatever Papyrus wants to watch. He tossed the remote off somewhere earlier and he’s too lazy to move to get it, so he just takes a blurry photo of the screen and sends it to you. Maybe you can identify the show for him.

 

**punpal:** ew, dude. why are you watching big bang theory, that show sucks

**sans:** is that what its called

**sans:** i havent really been paying attention to it

**sans:** i got out this bag of chips like 20 mins ago and im just now opening it

**punpal:** wow that interested in me huh ;)

 

He types out a joke (“nah i just had a  _ really  _ hard time opening the bag”), stares at it for a moment, deletes it, and writes just one word instead.

 

**sans:** yeah

 

He ends up talking to you until Papyrus gets back.

* * *

 

Sans messages you that he’s gotta go eat dinner with Papyrus, so you toss your phone onto the bed and finish sorting through your emails on your laptop.

You’d read the one from Mettaton earlier. It said basically what you expected it to say - that he was still incredibly sorry, that his reputation had taken a bit of a hit since the stream, that he hoped you came back. The more you thought about it, the less it seemed like a terrible idea to go back to your job.

Plus you’d had very little luck finding postings for comparable jobs in your city.

Aside from the commotion online, things seemed more or less back to normal. Yves had called you earlier and the two of you made up. Most of your coworkers were hoping you came back - aside from Tom. He’d actually sent you a kind of nasty “goodbye forever” email, but whatever. A couple of people who you didn’t know but that had also been a victim of Mettaton’s matchmaking had reached out to you to share their sympathies and tell you that Mettaton had sworn off the Love Match segment.

Best of all, Sans seems to be doing better and at the two of you are joking around again.

It still hasn’t totally sunk in that he actually didn’t see you strictly as a friend. Up until he laid it out for you, you seriously thought he was just sad you weren’t around to shoot the shit with anymore.

You remember what Undyne said before, while filming the haunted house video - that you and Sans were made for each other. Apparently you were similar not only in your sense of humor but also in your lack of social grace.

You grab your phone and scroll up to the messages from earlier.

 

**You:** wow that interested in me huh ;)

**sans:** yeah

 

You’d only been joking but he’d responded seriously. Your face feels a little warm just from rereading it.

You toss the phone down again. You shouldn’t get your hopes up too high. You know it’s possible he may discover that he’s not interested in dating you long term. And that’s okay.

You give up on the emails and grab your handheld console instead, loading up a game you can play mindlessly. 

It surprises you that the first thing he mentioned was cuddling. Not only because of the “mating” thing, but because Sans never seemed very touchy feely. He also never seemed insecure, though, but apparently he kind of is, so...

You squirm around in the bed, trying to get comfy while you mash buttons. You wonder what else he thought about. He said “nonphysical” so maybe like going out on dates? Did he want to take you out to like a nice restaurant? That really doesn’t seem like his style. Maybe he thought about domestic stuff, like you cooking him dinner or doing chores together. That seems a little far fetched too, though. If you were thinking about that kinda stuff  _ and  _ the cuddling you’d be pretty sure you wanted to date that person, and he seems very not sure.

Maybe he’s just asexual and still figuring it out, you muse. Or maybe he’s inexperienced and doesn’t know where the line between romantic and platonic feelings are. 

Your game startles you by suddenly playing the death sound effect as you totally bite the dust because you weren’t paying attention. Shit. You need to stop thinking about this. Maybe you should’ve brought someone with you on this trip after all.

* * *

 

You  _ definitely  _ should’ve brought someone with you on this trip.

It’s day four and you’re going a little stir crazy. Most of the cruise activities are group or couple things, so you’re basically just left with visiting the spa or the buffet. You’ve wasted most of your time cooped up in your room on the internet, playing games, or chatting with Sans.

Sans, at least, is good company. He still hasn’t really explained what “scenarios” he’s been considering, but he’s been talkative. Things with Yves are still a little awkward, but they’re getting better, and you still have two more days on this stupid cruise to work it out. And you can pretty much always count on Papyrus to talk your ear off at any time.

Actually, you should call Papyrus.

You grab a drink from the bar, chill out on the deck, and tap his contact info. He picks up almost immediately. 

“Hi!” he says, cheerfully. He sounds a little out of breath, but not so much that he can’t speak. You hear the whir of something mechanical and people talking in the background. “How are you, friend?”

“I’m good,” you tell him. “Are you busy? I can call back later.”

“Not at all, just at the gym!”

“Oh, okay. How are you?”

“I’m doing great!” he says, a little too loudly. You’re sure he’s getting looks from other people working out. “My Etsy store has been doing really well since I started designing patches!”

“That’s good.” You actually checked out his store the other day. He really is talented, and his designs are so whimsical and upbeat that it’d be more surprising if they weren’t selling well. You saw a lot of flowers and smiley faces and inspirational phrases. “Hey, if I pay you double your store price, will you make a patch just for me?”

“Of course! Don’t worry about paying double, I’ll give you a friendship discount. What do you want on it?” He sounds genuinely excited about making one for you.

“Not sure yet. Something punny, probably.”

He grunts. “Your friendship discount is revoked if it’s a bad pun!”

You laugh. “It’d be worth it.” Would it be weird to ask..? “Has Sans been doing better?”

“Oh, yes! He’s doing great ever since the two of you started dating!”

You’re about to take a sip of your drink, but stop prematurely. “Huh? We’re dating?”

“Duh!!!!” Papyrus shouts. “You made up and Sans said you’re trying ‘stuff’ so now you’re dating!”

You start giggling maniacally. “He said that?” Calling it “stuff” just makes it sound like you’re doing kinky shit in the bedroom! You don't think Papyrus took it that way, but you're pretty sure he misinterpreted something if he thinks you're dating Sans now. He sounds so happy though, so you don't correct him.

“Yes!” Papyrus assures you. Then, quieter, he says, “Thank you for talking to him. He really seems much happier now. He went back to work today and everything.”

He was skipping work? You didn’t know that. “That’s good. I wish I’d realized sooner he was so upset.”

Papyrus makes a humming sound. The whirring stops. “Sans just gets too into his own head sometimes. It’s hard, because he often needs a shove to get him to stop being such a lazybones and do the things he ought to do, but if you shove too hard he just falls right off into a big puddle of self loathing!!”

That’s… pretty insightful actually. You think maybe sometimes you don’t give Pap enough credit in the emotional maturity department. He doesn’t really get how stuff like dating works, but he’s very empathetic. “I’ll try to keep that in mind.” You sip your drink. “Thanks for being so supportive. Of both me and Sans.”

“Nyeh heh heh,” he cackles. “Of course! He’s my brother and you’re his datefriend!!” He pauses. “Okay, I do actually have to go now. It’s very difficult to do my weight training one handed. I nearly seriously injured myself the other day trying to do that!” He sounds way too enthusiastic about causing bodily harm to himself. “Goodbye!!”

“Bye,” you say, and he hangs up.

You lie back to sip your drink and do a little cloud watching.

You really wanna tease Sans about saying you’re “trying stuff” but you don’t know if that’d be too much for him. He seems to take that kind of thing more seriously than you do.

You’ve mostly kept yourself from thinking about Sans in that way because you didn’t want things to get weird while you were still friends, not because you were shy about sex. You’ve read and watched enough porn to shake a stick at, sexted a handful of times, and had your fair share of casual hookups while in college. You're not sure if Sans would be quite so lackadaisical about it and you don't want to accidentally cross a line.

Your phone buzzes with a notification. It’s Sans. He’s sent you a picture of his cluttered workspace. He’s apparently been goofing off by throwing darts at his star charts. There’s a big X in the middle of one of them and he’s not hit it once.

 

**sans:** cant tell if im a physicist or a physi-missed

**You:** boooo. i bet you missed on purpose just to make that joke

**You:** wait, i thought your focus was astronomy?

**sans:** im an astronomer first, quantum and particle physicist second. skeleton crew, remember?

 

Oh, right. You forgot he’s a secret genius.

 

**You:** i can’t believe you’re this smart but you also waste your time making stupid youtube vids with me

**sans:** im not that smart. im a real bonehead actually

 

You roll your eyes.

 

**You:** you have three fields of science that you’re studying. i think you can safely say you’re pretty fucking smart

**You:** wait shouldn’t you be working

**sans:** lunch break

 

Oh, duh.

 

**sans:** can i call you

**You:** hell yeah. im not doing anything important

 

You get up to head to your cabin and your phone rings on the walk there.

“Hey,” you say into the receiver.

“Knock knock.”

Sans sounds a lot better than the last time you heard him, almost like the Sans you’re used to. It’s good to hear that joking lilt back in his voice.

You feign an exhausted sigh. “Who’s there?”

“Wire.”

“Wire who?”

“Wire you answering the door? This is a phone call.”

You snort as you open your door, balancing your cell between your cheek and your shoulder. “Terrible as always.” You shut the door behind you with your foot.

“You can do better?” he challenges. 

“Knock knock,” you say.

“Who’s there?” He sounds pretty excited that you’re actually taking him up on it.

“Ach.”

He laughs. “Everyone knows this one!”

“But you still laughed, didn’t you?” you say, grinning and flopping onto your bed.

“Ya got me,” he concedes. 

“Why’d you wanna call, anyway?” You curl up under the covers. Maybe you should just stay in bed for the rest of the day. “Too lazy to type?”

“Something like that. Uh.” He pauses. “I know I’ve been putting off telling you the kinds of things I was thinking about doing.”

“Yeah, but it’s okay. I told you it’s fine if you need time.”

He makes a discontented noise and you hear shuffling noises. “Yeah, but I should just say it and get it over with.” More noises. Is he pacing around his lab room? “I’m sure you’ve probably guessed that I’m not especially romantic or good at dating.”

You smile. “I might have noticed.”

“So,” he continues, “mostly, I’ve just been thinking about doing the same shit I always do in my spare time, but with you. Uhh. And being close to you. Physically and metaphorically.” He sounds a little anxious and he’s talking much quicker than usual, but he’s nowhere near the level of fear he was at the last time he called you. “I wish I knew more things about you, or what to say to make you feel better.” He makes a frustrated noise. “I’m not that good at being a shoulder to cry on but I still find myself wishing you’d come to me first when you’re upset about… work, or what some jerk said to you, or whatever.

“Okay,” you say. You wonder what’s got him so anxious about all this or why it took him so long to say it. None of it is that outlandish. “All that stuff sounds pretty good to me. I mean, I basically feel the same. So what's the problem?”

“I don’t know how to make the transition from what we had into… whatever kind of relationship that would be.” He still sounds frustrated. “I didn’t know how to make it before all this happened and now it feels even more complicated.”

“I mean, we can just… hang out more,” you say. “We don’t have to put labels on it right away. We can just do our normal free time activities, but together, and see if you feel any different.”

“What if I don’t?” He sounds genuinely frightened of that possibility.

“Then you don’t and we’re just pals for eternity. If nothing happens, I’ll get over it.”

He huffs out a sharp breath. “Okay.”

“Okay.” You pause. “Sooo… when I get back from this cruise do you wanna hang out? I can just come to your place and we can chill.”

“Uhh. Yeah.” He sounds a little dazed. You wonder what kind of face he’s making. “Let’s do that. Uh, I’m gonna let you go now. I gotta actually work for once.”

You snort. “Okay, later, slacker.”

* * *

 

Sans finds himself awake in bed at an obscenely late hour, staring at his phone and wishing you would message him.

He’s lonely.

Papyrus is asleep. He’s not close enough to anyone else to wake them up at this time of night. He’s alone with his thoughts and he’s thinking about all the ways he could fuck things up with you or how slow his progress at work is or…

He opens up Facebook Messenger.

 

**sans:** hey

 

You’re not gonna answer. It’s way too fucking late and he’s being weird by messaging you at all.

 

**punpal:** hey dude

**punpal:** i’m awake because i wanna finish this chapter of my book and im on vacation and i’m allowed to fuck up my sleep schedule. why are YOU up?

 

He winces. You really just called him out like that, huh?

 

**sans:** cant sleep

**punpal:** aah. you okay? anything i can do?

**sans:** can you just talk to me

 

Ugh. He sounds so fucking desperate. He doesn’t want you to worry about him right now. He just wants you to talk and laugh at his jokes.

You’re typing for a long time before you reply.

 

**punpal:** ok i know this is not the time for it but like all i can think about is how you totally told your bro that you and i were “trying stuff”

**punpal:** you know that definitely sounds like we’re doing weird shit in the bedroom right

 

He snorts. Whoops. You must’ve been talking to Papyrus and he mentioned it.

Whatever, Pap probably didn’t interpret it that way anyway.

 

**sans:** who says that wasnt what i meant

**punpal:** wow real devious

**punpal:** first you’re talking about mating, then you just wanna cuddle, now you’re telling everyone we’re getting freaky

**punpal:** you trying to get my hopes up?

 

He jerks up into a sitting position. 

Wait.

 

**sans:** wait

 

_ Wait! _

 

**sans:** you were hoping id want more than that?

**punpal:** UM…. i mean…….

**punpal:** sorry. i don’t want to make you uncomfortable.

**punpal:** you said you hadn’t thought about anything more intimate than cuddling so i probably shouldn’t have brought it up

**sans:** never said that

**punpal:** seriously? so you have?

 

His face is burning up and it feels like there’s a fire inside of his ribcage. What the hell is he doing? The two of you weren’t even on speaking terms five days ago. He’s lucky you’ve agreed to start seeing him and hanging out when you get back - he shouldn’t be telling you the shit he barely admits to himself. Just two days ago he was saying neither of you were probably ready for this.

Stop, he tells himself. Stop right now before this gets weird and you freak out. He's tired. He's not thinking straight.

 

**sans:** nothing weird

**sans:** mostly just the logistics of it

 

_ That’s not stopping!! _

 

 

**punpal:** ohhh

**punpal:** okay, so monsters have sex differently i assume? bc of what you said before with the mating? i honestly don’t know much about monster reproduction, it’s not all over the internet the way info on human reproduction is

 

Oh shit. How can you be so casual about this? Did yo u seriously just ask him how he fucks? How is he supposed to answer that?

...Well, he’s said all sorts of shit to you that he’d never thought he’d say, so what’s one more thing? You're so intensely curious and that, for some reason, is totally fascinating to him. Terrifying, but fascinating.

 

**sans:** most monsters dont have genitalia

 

Sans groans, flops back on the bed, and buries his face in his pillow. When he hears his phone ping, he peeks at it by moving his head as little as possible.

 

**punpal:** wait really? how did i not know this?

**sans:** theres not a lot of monster/human relationships so theres not a lot of reason to talk about it

**punpal:** would most monsters identify as asexual? how do you guys reproduce? do you divide and reproduce asexually like cells do?

 

He didn’t think you’d have so many questions. He was expecting maybe you’d just say, “Wow, you’re a freak!” Or, “That’s disgusting!” Or, “Haha, no dick Sans!”

He rolls onto his back.

 

**sans:** you dont think its weird

**punpal:** not really? you’re an entirely different species, why would your reproduction be exactly the same as a human’s?

**sans:** ok

**sans:** uh

 

From here the explanation is - well, not exactly clinical, because it’s magic, but at least he can explain it in a way that’s not embarrassing.

**sans:** so not all monsters would consider themselves asexual because there are things we do that are analogous to sex for pleasure for humans and some monsters like that. but we all reproduce the same way and its not exactly physical and requires two people so its not asexual

**sans:** ur familiar with souls right

**punpal:** ...vaguely. i read about it in an article online

**punpal:** basically, like, the concept is the same as the human concept of a soul, but for monsters souls aren’t a concept, they’re a real thing you can touch and see and your bodies are like, a manifestation of your souls?

 

Humans have souls, too. He’s not sure if you know that, but it’s not especially relevant right now.

 

**sans:** right basically

**sans:** so monsters reproduce by splitting of a piece of their soul and merging it with a piece of another monster’s soul to make an entirely new monster

**punpal:** OHHHHHH

**punpal:** THAT MAKES SO MUCH SENSE

 

Sans blinks. 

He needs to start giving you more credit, because you keep surprising him with how well you take new information about monsters.

 

**sans:** what

**punpal:** i remember thinking when the monsters first arrived, like, how are they so biologically diverse? they all look so different?

**punpal:** it’s because your reproduction isn’t biological at all!! of course you all look wildly different if reproduction is done magically through the soul

**sans:** we probably wouldve been extinct a long time ago if our reproduction was entirely biological

**punpal:** oh. well don’t say that. that’s a bit of a bummer

**sans:** heh. sorry

 

Sans finds himself feeling pretty impressed that you grasped the concept so easily. He wonders if maybe you’d have an easy time understanding more complex, abstract magical concepts. He hasn’t really shown you any of his magic - humans are always either way too into or they get freaked out, so most monsters were restrained with their powers in front of human company.

Part of him is a little disappointed that you’re having this conversation over text, rather than on the phone or in person. You always light up when you get excited about something, and you seem pretty damn excited about this.

 

**punpal:** the thing thats analogous to sex for pleasure, did you mean analogous like it serves the same purpose or analogous like the actual act is the same

**sans:** the same purpose

**sans:** i dont think what monsters do is comparable to what humans do physically

**punpal:** wait, so you already know about human sex?

**punpal:** aw man, i wanted to teach you stuff too :(

**sans:** i saw some stuff

**sans:** dont think im interested in it

 

He’d googled it out of curiosity months after monsters came to the surface. He found a  website, clicked on a few videos, and found himself feeling a little alarmed watching it.

He hadn’t expected humans to put their bits  _ inside  _ of each other like that. It’s one thing to put something inside of a skeleton monster, where there’s lots of room to move around, but humans had such small openings and it seemed like everyone was so rough with it. Was that even enjoyable? Those humans barely even looked like they liked each other.

Eventually he’d gotten too freaked out and had to stop.

 

**punpal:** wait, you saw? where?

**sans:** online

**punpal:** oh my god

**punpal:** please tell me you didn’t watch porn as your human sex education 

**punpal:** can you imagine if i learned about monster sex from monster porn

 

He frowns at his phone, rolling over and readjusting the pillow under his skull.

Faintly, he realizes that he’s not that embarrassed to be talking about this anymore, which is weird because he definitely hasn’t had a conversation like this with someone before. Maybe because you seemed so nonchalant about the whole thing, like it was really no big deal. Maybe it was your blatant enthusiasm to just be learning something new and teaching him something in return.

 

**sans:** we uhhh. dont really have porn

**sans:** i mean someone might take personal pictures for a partner but nothing on the scale of what you have above ground 

**sans:** even if someone wanted to sell them theres only a couple thousand monsters in the entire underground. it’d hardly be worth it

**sans:** the most we had was whatever got sent down in the trash and not many were that interested in human stuff back then

**punpal:** oh

**punpal:** wait but you know that like most porn is not anything like real sex, right?

 

What?

What the hell is it then?

He squints, reads over the message again to make sure you’re not joking. It doesn’t seem like you are.

 

**sans:** its not?

**punpal:** yeah like. a lot of it is pretty extreme to attract people’s attention cuz the market is so over saturated 

**punpal:** unless you were watching like, amateur stuff, it probably wasn’t that much like the way most humans fuck. and even amateur stuff can be kind of unrealistic sometimes

**sans:** hm

 

The fact that you’re talking about it like it’s just a business like anything else kind of makes his soul sink. Is this normal for you? Is this how detached you’d be if you and him were to…

That’s not fun to think about, so he doesn’t.

He also doesn’t want to be rude, or upset you, and he’s genuinely pretty interested in knowing more so he can understand you better.

 

**sans:** so the amateur stuff is more realistic

**punpal:** i mean usually.

 

Sans puts his phone down and leans over the edge of his bed to grab the laptop lying on his floor. Quickly, he types “amateur porn” into Google and clicks one of the first few links. 

A whole slew of video thumbnails come up. They all look kind of the same to him - bedrooms and bad camera angles and naked humans. Why were all the camera angles weird? You would never film something like this.

He mutes his laptop’s volume and picks one at random.

It’s one human leaning over another human as they lie on a bed. The human on top is moving his hips a little and the human on the bottom is arching her back and wrapping her arms around the top one.

The room feels really warm and he can feel his face scrunching up. His soul is twisting somewhere inside of him. He still feels a little weird watching this, like he’s intruding on something, but it looks better to him than the stuff he saw before. These humans at least look like they care about each other.

He clicks on one of the related videos.

This one is just one human, a woman holding some kind of pink, rubbery object that’s shaped like a penis. She runs her hands over her own body and looks directly at the camera with an expression her face that Sans could imagine a monster making during an intimate moment. She arches her back and angles her hips to better show off what’s in between her spread legs. It looks soft.

Would you do that? Would you do it in front of him? Would you let him touch -

Okay. That’s enough of that. His shirt is damp with sweat now and his soul is pulsating.

He pauses the video and picks up his phone.

 

**sans:** these are better than what i saw before

**punpal:** akdjgsfkj sans omfg are you looking at vids right now

 

He slams his laptop shut and types out his response quickly, grinning.

 

**sans:** no

**punpal:** OMG YOU WERE!!

**sans:** shut up

**punpal:** oh. sorry

 

Wait, what?

 

**punpal:** bear with me. i’m used to you being this cool, unflappable dude but im starting to realize you’re sensitive about this stuff. please tell me if i tease you too hard

 

Oh.

No, he doesn’t like that. He doesn’t want you to worry about playing around with him. He hates that you know how insecure he is now. He’s not used to anyone besides Pap and maybe Alphys seeing him as anything other than an aloof jokester.

He wants you to think he’s cool.

 

**sans:** no that was a joke shut up

**sans:** would it help if i put it in a funny font

 

He opens his laptop back up and quickly googles for a website that will make neon, 3D text for him, customizes the settings a little, and types in “shut up.” He saves it, opens it in Paint, then slaps a low res image of fire underneath it, resaves it, and sends it to you.

 

**punpal:** GKDJLFAHS

**punpal:** SANS

**punpal:** so i can tease you a lil, sometimes? and this conversation didn’t make you uncomfortable?

 

He really expected it to. And there were definitely some awkward points. But he feels strangely closer to you after this, and that’s worth it.

 

**sans:** yup to the first, nope to the second

**punpal:** ok cool. cuz this was kinda fun.

**punpal:** i’m gonna sleep now. are you good?

 

He’s probably still not going to be able to sleep for a while, but he feels better.

 

**sans:** yup 

**sans:** gnight 

**punpal:** good night buddy

 

He doesn’t know why, but the word “buddy” makes him frown.


	8. Chapter 8

On the last day of the cruise, as you’re packing up your bags, you call Mettaton.

You have his personal number but you decide to contact him through his office secretary, just so it’s clear that this is a business call.

He actually sounds anxious when he takes you off hold. “Hello, darling, how’s the cruise?”

“It’s pretty nice,” you say, because even though it’s been supremely boring, it’s also been relaxing. “Thanks for giving me the tickets.”

“Of course!” he exclaims, a little too eagerly. “Have you given any thought to..?” He trails off, trying to be delicate.

“I’d like to come back.”

He heaves out a sigh. “Oh, thank God. I was so worried you’d say no. Not only would the optics be just  _ terrible _ for PR if you quit, but also we need you here.” Ah. There’s his usual personality.

“You have to promise never to mess with my personal life again,” you tell him.

“Believe me,” he says, emphatically. You can hear keyboard keys clacking. He’s probably sending out emails about what projects you should be assigned to when you get back - you can’t imagine him wanting to waste any time once you return. “I’ve learned my lesson about asking for permission. I like drama on air, darling, not in my working relationships.”

“Good,” you say, tossing clothes into your suitcase.

“Out of curiosity, and not because I plan on meddling,” he says, still typing and multitasking. “Have you and Sans made up? A certain other skeleton might have mentioned something juicy to me the other day.”

“We might have,” you say. You’re still a little miffed at him, but not so much that you don’t want to playfully tease him. “It would be  _ inappropriate _ to reveal anything salacious to my  _ boss _ .”

“Oh, boo. Fine, be that way.” He sighs. “Seriously, darling, I’m glad you’re coming back and that I haven’t permanently ruined things between the two of you.”

“Yeah, well…” You trail off, not sure what to say. “I gotta finish packing. Talk to you later.”

Mettaton says his goodbyes and the two of you hang up. You’re trying to force your overstuffed suitcase closed when your phone pings with a notification from Sans.

 

**sans:** hey, you never posted any selfies from the cruise

**sans:** isnt that an internet crime, going on a trip and not posting pics online. what kind of social media influencer are you

 

You grin at the joke.

 

**You:** i actually did take a few but i felt stupid posting them since there’s no one here with me

**You:** i haven’t been active on social media anyway since everyone’s gone apeshit over mtt’s apology

**sans:** send em to me then

**You:** if we’re at the trading selfies stage of this relationship that means you actually have to send some back

**sans:** im going to show my hand here and reveal that i know for a fact youve already sent the pics to pap

**You:** yeah because he’s unrelentingly supportive of everyone and everything. and also bc he sends pics back

 

You exit out of the chat with Sans so you can take a screenshot of your chat with Papyrus and send it to him. A lot of what Papyrus sends you are gym selfies or mirror selfies of his outfit for the day, but they’re all very cute and endearing.

 

**You:** see?

**sans:** hes photogenic, its different

**You:** this is what your msgs sound like in my head when i read them

 

You send him a link to a YouTube video called “10 minutes of fart noises.”

 

**sans:** dont call me on my bullshit like this

**You:** your excuses are falling FLATulence

 

Sans types for a long time, then stops. You toss your phone down and go back to trying to force your suitcase shut.

Why’s he so interested in procuring your selfies? Sans has never once made a comment about your appearance, positive or negative. You think he’s mentioned that you “look soft” once, but that’s it. You assumed he wasn’t especially attracted to your appearance, and that was part of why he was so conflicted about whether he was attracted to you as more than a friend.

You finally manage to get the zipper all the way closed and lay down on the bed to dick around a little more on your handheld console. Your phone pings. Sans has sent you a picture.

It’s him, in his lab, wearing his usual work outfit of a lab coat and t-shirt. It’s from a slightly lower angle, which usually doesn’t look good on anyone, but it looks fine on him. He’s taken it in front of the one tiny window in the room, the afternoon sun filtering through and highlighting his face. He’s got a couple multicolored smudges on his cheeks - looks like pen, maybe, from his whiteboard pens. He’s grinning, as usual, but you can tell by his eye sockets that he’s slightly nervous.

It’s really cute.

Would it be creepy to save this on your phone?

Probably.

You save it anyway.

 

**You:** your toll has been paid

 

You spam him with the pics you’ve taken on the trip, mostly selfies and shots of the ocean.

 

**sans:** you look good in all of these

**sans:** this is just the same stuff you sent to pap tho isnt it

**sans:** do i have to send something special for access to the premium content

**You:** yeah my nudes cost 4 selfies and a dick pic. which means you’ll never get them because you don’t have a dick to send

 

You regret that joke as soon as you send it. It might be too far, too sexual. Is he insecure about the no genitalia thing? You’re not sure.

 

**sans:** do you accept substitutes of cock-cyx pics

 

Oh, no, seems that it’s fine actually.

 

**You:** if all your selfies are that adorable you can just substitute those

**sans:** wait really

 

You crease your brow.

 

**You:** no, i dont actually have a nudes exchange program, dumdum

**sans:** not that

**sans:** you liked the pic?

 

Your brow furrows harder.

 

**You:** ummm yeah

**You:** already admitted i thought you were handsome on the livestream, remember

**sans:** right. i forgot

 

You’re not sure what to say to that, so you toss your phone back down and go back to your game, spacing out a little bit as you play.

It still surprises you that Sans is insecure about that kind of thing. This is the same dude who, on the first day you met him, boldly fell asleep while the two of you were supposed to be working on a project. The same dude who makes relentless bone puns, the same dude who wears fucking fuzzy slippers to work.

You love his sense of humor, but you wonder if sometimes he hides behind it.

* * *

 

Going back to work is hard.

You freak out a little bit in the elevator, shifting the box of your desk stuff in your arms. The receptionist seemed surprised to see you, so you’re sure your coworkers are going to have equally shocked looks on their faces.

The elevator makes a chime noise and deposits you on your floor. You step out, briskly walking to your desk and nervously avoiding looking at anyone.

Yves pops up out of her cubicle when she hears you unpacking your stuff, and rushes over to crush you in a hug. You pat her back awkwardly.

“I am  _ so  _ glad you’re back,” she says as she pulls away, her eyes a little misty. “Can we do lunch today? My treat.”

“You don’t have to do that,” you say, quickly. You’ve honestly forgiven her by now but it’s obvious she still feels guilty. “I’m gonna have to rain check you though, I already made plans with Sans. We can go tomorrow?”

She squeals, delighted to hear you’re hanging out with Sans. “Of course!” She bounces up and down giddily. “I’m so happy you two made up!”

You shrug and smile, and the two of you settle into your chairs.

You feel just a little bad - you haven’t told Yves the extent to which you and Sans have “made up,” just that you’re talking again. You’re not exactly keeping it a secret that it’s not entirely platonic, since Papyrus definitely knows and Mettaton has an inkling, but you don’t want to blast it out publically after everything that happened. You and Sans haven’t put a label on whatever your relationship is anyway, so it would only serve to confuse most people.

A few people stop by your cubicle to welcome you back, which is a little uncomfortable. They’re doing it to be nice, but you’d honestly rather pretend the whole ordeal never happened. You never made an official statement online about the situation for the same reason. Maybe if you act like it’s all water under the bridge, everyone will forget about it.

Things are going more or less okay until Tom catches you in the break room getting coffee.

“Oh, Crybaby’s back,” he says, loudly, walking up behind you.

You freeze and grit your teeth, before turning around with your mug in your hands and a big smile plastered on your face. “Delightful to see you too, Tom.”

“So brave of you to come back after that huge embarrassment of a stream,” he says, smirking, his voice lilting condescendingly. “I sure couldn’t do it.”

You grip your mug so hard your knuckles turn white. Your face is hot and your eyes are burning and you’re struggling to keep it together. “Guess I’m just tougher than you,” you say, though it doesn’t come out as forceful as you were hoping for.

He hums in pretend thoughtfulness. “Kinkier, too, I guess, if you’re willing to fuck a skeleton.”

Your blood goes ice cold. You open and close your mouth like a fish, trying to say something smart back to him, trying to say  _ he’s not a real skeleton, moron, _ but nothing comes out. It’s not even that offensive - if a friend had said it to you, you might’ve laughed - but the  _ way  _ he said it, snide and with an edge of disgust…

You snap your mouth shut and briskly walk past him, to the elevator.

You walk through the connecting hallway that joins the MTTFeed offices with the Royal Lab. 

You walk through the sterile white hallways, trying to force the tears back, and knock on the door to Sans’s lab.

“Door’s open,” comes his muffled voice.

You open the door. He’s at the whiteboard, puzzling over what looks like nonsense to you but probably makes perfect sense to him. He glances at you, says, “Oh, hey,” then does a double take. “Shit, are you okay?”

“Tom is such a fucking massive prick and I  _ hate  _ him,” you wail, your voice warbling, and then the dam breaks and you start ugly sobbing in the middle of his doorway.

You dimly register him looking panicked, going, “Oh shit, oh shit,” over and over. He rushes over to you, gently prying your fingers off the doorknob that you still have an iron grip on and taking the mug you didn’t realize you were still holding out of your hands. He puts it down on the nearest available surface and leads you by the arm to the beanbag chair he keeps in the corner. You plop down on it, burying your face in your hands, and he leans against his desk.

“What happened?” he asks.

You try to explain what Tom said in a hysterical jumble of words.

Your eyes are still screwed shut and hidden behind your hands, but you hear Sans move closer, before awkwardly perching on the edge of the beanbag and rubbing your shoulders in soothing circles with one hand as you cry.

You take shaky breaths and focus on the feeling of his hand over your clothes. You can kind of feel the ridges of bone - his palm, especially, is full of divots and bumps.

Once you calm down, you sniffle loudly, wipe away your tears, and look at him.

He’s staring off into space, his usual big grin plastered on his face, but his brow is turned down and creased so that his eye sockets are not their usual shape. His other hand is clenched tightly in his lap. You notice, with some surprise, that you can’t see the lights in his sockets anymore. You don’t think you’ve seen Sans angry before, and it’s a little scary.

You put your hand on his, gently.

That seems to snap him out of whatever he was thinking about, because he jolts and the lights in his sockets come back. His fist relaxes, too, but he still looks a little pissed.

“What do you want to do?” he asks, quietly, his voice strained. “We can go to Mettaton. I think he probably wouldn’t like what Tom said to you.”

You groan, rubbing your temple with your other hand and looking down at the floor. “I don’t want to escalate this. I just wish he would stop being so horrible.”

“Jerks like that don’t stop ‘til they have to,” he says.

You sniffle. You know he’s probably right. “I hate him so  _ fucking  _ much. Why does he make it his personal mission to make everyone feel bad about themselves?” You sigh. “I’m sorry, I just realized this is the first time you’re seeing me since got back and I’m a total mess.”

He snorts. “Don’t worry about it. I’m, uhh, I’m glad you came to me.” He stills the hand on your back. “Was this, uh, helping at all?”

You give him a little smile. “Yeah. Thank you. It’s comforting. I think I’m okay now though.”

Sans is quiet for a minute. He leaves his arm resting around you, his hand on your shoulder. It feels nice. “It’s almost noon anyway,” he says. “How about we just go to lunch now, if you’re up for it?”

You nod.

The two of you get up and shuffle out. He’s staring down at his feet, pensive, until he says, ominously, “How do you feel about revenge?”

You ask what he means, and you laugh when he tells you.

The two of you spend an hour planning it while eating greasy pizza at the hole-in-the-wall pizza place down the street.

* * *

 

You get into work early the next morning, even though you and Sans had stayed late the previous afternoon. You don’t want want to miss this.

You sit at your desk, getting a little thumbnail work done, until Tom walks in. You perk up, watching as he walks towards his desk at the back of the room. You surreptitiously pull out your phone and walk to the entrance of the break room, leaning against the doorway casually so you can film the back of the room while pretending to just dick around on your phone.

Tom sits down in his chair. Immediately, a fart noise blasts out, loud enough for everyone in the room to hear.

You snort, despite your best efforts to stay quiet. You’re not even sure how Sans managed to get a whoopie cushion that large under the fabric of the seat, but he’d painstakingly pieced the chair back together when he was done. It was the most work you’d ever seen him do.

“Dude, seriously?” hisses Tom’s desk mate.

Tom looks absolutely horrified. “That  _ wasn’t  _ me.”

The woman who sits on the other side of Tom’s cubicle sniffs, then jolts out of her chair. “Oh my god, that’s  _ rank _ !”

Ah, yes. The small vial of stink bomb fluid that Sans placed in the cushion must’ve cracked open and the smell is starting to hit.

You can help it. You grin widely. 

“It’s not me!” Tom cries, helplessly. His face is turning a splotchy red color. He looks between his two desk mates, both of whom are pinching their noses and glaring at him. “ _ It’s not! _ ”

There’s some stifled chuckling throughout the room. 

“Christ, man, what the fuck did you eat,” the first desk mate says.

Tom looks mortified by this point, and quickly bolts out of the room.

You stop recording and send the video to Sans, still holding in snickers. You feel a  _ little  _ bad, and honestly you were surprised that Sans suggested it.

But it still felt really good to take Tom down a peg.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> apologies for the shorter chapter, but its bc the next one is probably going to be fluff full throttle all the way through


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> first off, huge props to Salg, who made [some incredible art of the volcano bit from chapter 1,](https://salgarts.tumblr.com/post/180007554745/drew-out-a-scene-from-crabghost-s-fic-because-i) i literally went wild and lost all sense of domestication when i saw it so please check it out
> 
> secondly, thanks to @grumblingerblin on tumblr for some of the puns in this chapter, which i stole from our pun-off

Sans has never planned his outfit in advance in his life.

He’d been putting off actually asking you out ever since you got back from the cruise, and finally this week you’d beat him to it and asked him to have dinner on Saturday and then spend the evening watching movies at your place. You didn’t call it a date, but he’s pretty sure that’s what it is.

Because it’s nearly identical to his failed date with Toriel.

He looks over the few items of clothing he owns that would be worth wearing on a date. He really needs this to go well. If you stop him at the door, like Toriel did, and tell him that you “just don’t feel a spark” and that you should probably end the date “before things get out of hand” and he “gets hurt,” well… he’s not sure how long it would take him to recover from a second, nearly identical rejection.

He rubs his forehead with one hand and sighs. He wishes he at least knew exactly what he did wrong to kill whatever chance he had at romance with Tori, so he can avoid repeating the same mistakes with you, but he’s only got a couple ideas. He knows he probably should’ve dressed nicer, so he’ll put effort into an outfit for you. He knows he was acting way too nervous and cracked too many jokes, so he’ll firmly bottle up and repress any of his insecurities after tonight and try to act serious.

He takes a deep breath and looks over the clothes again.

He’s only got the one jacket besides his beat-up, ancient hoodie, so he didn’t even bother pulling that out of the closet since he’s got no choice but to wear it. He could theoretically go without a jacket entirely, because the cold doesn’t bother him, but he tends to get stares when he does that.

He’s got literally three decent shirts he can wear, a couple of button-ups and a gray pocketed tee that Papyrus had bought him a while back. He’s only got two pairs of decent pants - slacks and a pair of distressed jeans.

His impulse, if he’s going out to dinner, is to go with a button-up and slacks but then if he makes it past your front door for the second half of the date, he’ll be supremely uncomfortable for the rest of the night. But if he dresses too casual then he might not even make it that far and -

Ugh. He can’t do this.

He pokes his head of his room. Papyrus is on the couch, watching Say Yes To The Dress.

“Hey, bro?” Sans calls out.

Papyrus immediately perks up and turns to look at him. “Are you going to let me help?!”

Sans sighs. “Yes.” A pause. “Please.”

Papyrus leaps up excitedly. “Oh, thank the stars. You’ve been a wreck all day, you know. I don’t know what’s gotten you all riled up.” He walks over briskly, pushing past Sans and into the bedroom, stopping in front of the meager selection laid out on the bed.

“It’s just…” Sans looks away, embarrassed, scratching at his neck. “It’s just a lot like it was with Tori.”

Papyrus shoots him a withering look. “It is literally nothing like it was with the queen.”

“It’s nearly exactly the same date,” Sans argues.

“The situation is totally different!” Papyrus says, rolling his eye lights. “Sans, your friend has _already_ expressed romantic interest in you. The thing with the queen was a test run, because she wasn’t sure. If anything, _you’re_ the queen in this scenario, and _they’re_ you!”

“But what if they realize halfway through how bad I am at this kinda stuff?” he says.

“I am quite sure they’ve already noticed,” Papyrus shoots back, but his voice is laced with humor and not scorn. He pairs up the tee and the jeans on the bed, looks at it for a moment, and then rolls up the sleeves of the tee a couple times. “You know, if you actually wanted to put effort into your appearance, a hipster-bohemian sort of look would probably really suit you.” He looks around, searching for something. “Please tell me you own _something_ in the realm of accessories.”

“Uhh… does the puka shell necklace that Frisk bought me when we went to the beach count?”

Papyrus sighs exaggeratedly. “You’re not going surfing, so no. Even then it would be a questionable choice. Hold on.” He leaves, rushing off to his own room before coming back quickly, holding a burgundy beanie and a simple chain necklace. He puts them down next to the shirt and jeans and nods. “Okay, this is what you’re wearing.”

“You’re sure it’s not too casual?” Sans asks, warily.

Papyrus is already busying himself with hanging up the other clothes and pointedly scowling at all the mess he has to step around to get to the closet. “You’ll have a miserable time at their place if you’re wearing anything more formal. The accessories and rolled sleeves make it look nicer and more intentional, which is good enough for a first date.”

Sans stands there fretting for a moment, wishing he knew what kind of clothes you usually liked on your romantic partners and wondering if he should’ve gone shopping, until he feels Papyrus’s hand on his shoulder.

“It’s really going to be okay,” he says, smiling down at Sans. “They’ve been looking forward to this.”

That’s exactly what Sans is afraid of.

* * *

It’s the weekend. Sans is coming over soon and you’ve definitely put off cleaning your apartment until the last minute.

Considering the state of his lab, you doubt he’d actually mind if your place was a mess, but still, it’s his first time visiting you and you want to make a good impression. At least there isn’t much for you to clean. With rent prices in the city, you had to choose between moving into a shoebox or getting a roommate, so you chose the shoebox. You’d let the mess get out of control recently because of the stress from work. You’d only been back a few weeks but the workload is already getting to you and it makes you lethargic when you come home.

You tackle the area of vital importance first, the living room, where you’d likely be spending most of your time with him. Next you did the tiny bedroom and bathroom, which you doubt he would see, but if he did it would disastrous because they were the messiest. You’re just finishing up the kitchen - how the hell does your stove top get SO dirty when you’re only cooking for one person - when there’s a knock on the door.

You toss the ruined sponge in the trashcan and hurry over. When you open it, you’re surprised to find Sans wearing something other than his usual attire. He’s wearing an actual jacket instead of his lab coat or zip-up hoodie, a t-shirt that actually might have touched an iron at some point, a pair of distressed jeans, and real shoes instead of slippers. He’s even bothered with accessories, a burgundy beanie perched on his head and a thin silver chain around his neck.

“Wow, you actually dressed up. Kinda.” You look him over approvingly. You’d dressed a little nicer than usual, too. Neither of you had actually called this a date, but you’re pretty sure it is one.

“Don’t be too impressed,” he says, grinning. “I stole some of this from Papyrus.”

“I can tell, I recognize the beanie from last week’s selfie on Instagram.”

He shrugs. “He’s lucky we aren’t the same size, or else I’d steal more of his clothes when I have a date. Which is usually never.”

You chuckle and try not to get too excited that he’s actually calling this a date and it wasn’t you just misconstruing the situation. “By the way, you really didn’t have to come all the way to my apartment,” you tell him, stepping out and locking your door behind you. “We can meet halfway next time.”

“Nah,” he says. “It’s really no trouble. I know a shortcut.”

You lead him back down the stairs of your apartment complex to the ground floor. “Don’t suppose you know a shortcut to the restaurant?”

“Maybe,” he says vaguely, stopping at the bottom of the stairs. He holds his hand out to you. “Uh, close your eyes.”

You give him a funny look. “Umm… what kind of shortcut is this?”

His grin widens, though he looks a little nervous. He just makes a grabbing motion with his hand and shrugs again.

You take his hand. His bones are like ice because of the cold weather. “I want you to know that this is super suspicious and weird and if you’re playing a prank on me I’ll totally go back upstairs and leave you here.”

He laughs, because he knows you wouldn’t, and you close your eyes.

He leads you a couple steps forward, tugging you along by the hand. On the third step, you feel the sensation of falling, like when you go down stairs and misjudge how far down the next step is and have a moment of fear where you could go tumbling forward. You nearly scream, but before you can even open your mouth, your foot hits concrete again. You stumble, gritting your teeth and holding out your arms to balance yourself. Your hand would’ve left Sans’s if he didn’t have a tight grip on you.

“Okay, we’re here,” he says, and his voice has that lilt to it that tells you he’s trying not to laugh, so he’s obviously amused by how freaked out you are.

You crack one eye open, then open the other. You vaguely recognize where you are, and it’s certainly not in front of your apartment building. You let go of Sans’s hand and whirl around in a circle as you realize you’ve traveled several blocks away, to an alleyway next to the restaurant, in a matter of seconds. “Woah, what! What the fuck!” You stare at him, mouth agape for a moment. “How’d you do that!?”

He just winks at you. It’s not an uncommon gesture for him, but it makes you flush a little in this context. “Magic,” he says.

“Fuck, dude,” you say, putting a hand on your chest. Your heart is racing. “You’re going to have to actually explain to me how this all works one day instead of just telling me it’s ‘magic.’”

The lights in his sockets twinkle, the way that they do when he’s particularly amused by something. “We’ll see.”

The two of you head to the restaurant, a Italian place that Papyrus had apparently recommended to Sans. When the two of you step through the door, you’re relieved to find that it’s mostly full of people dressed casually and it’s not some fancy place with candles lit at every table. You doubt Sans would’ve gone for that kind of place, but Papyrus might’ve and Sans might’ve been lazy like you and not bothered to check online to see what kind of place it is.

“So,” you start, once the two of you are seated and have ordered drinks. “Not to mix business and pleasure, but I had a question that maybe you can answer.”

Sans looks at you over his menu. “Shoot.”

“Do you know why Mettaton built the labs, like, right next to his company offices?” You set your menu down and put an elbow on the table, resting your head in your hand. “It just seems like a weird setup.”

“You don’t know?” Sans sounds surprised. “He had the labs built and donated them in exchange for having the scientists work on some of his content. That’s how I got roped into doing segments for the stream. Alphys builds nearly all the mechanical props and works with Papyrus on implementing his puzzles.”

“So it was a bargaining chip,” you say. That makes a lot of sense. Figures Mettaton didn’t donate the building purely out of the goodness of his heart.

“Basically,” Sans agrees. “I flat out refused to work for him at first and nearly quit working in the lab, but Papyrus said it’d be good for me. Give me something to do other than laying around or working on research papers.”

The waiter drops off your drinks and complimentary bread, and you thank him quickly before turning back to Sans, who is already reaching for the basket in the middle of the table. “It’s not so bad, is it?”

“Nah,” he says, stuffing half the bread stick into his mouth at once. “S’more fun with you around.”

You smile and grab some bread, too, and tear into it. Normally on first dates you feel weird and unattractive when you eat, but you’ve gotten lunch with Sans so many times by now that it’s definitely not awkward anymore. Besides, you once watched him wad up and stuff an entire slice of pizza into his gob and hork it down like a starving python, so you know he doesn’t give a shit about how either of you look while eating.

It’s nice, not having to worry about stupid shit. You once dated a guy who cringed if you so much as leaned forward while eating soup, so this is a far cry from that.

The conversation is easy and he, as always, is cracking jokes and making you laugh. He asks a lot about you, about what you do for fun, about your interests. He has an almost bizarre amount of questions about video games - he says he doesn’t play many because they didn’t fall into the Underground often and not many monsters knew how to program, but he’d like to try some. You tell him you’re not exactly a hardcore gamer, but you know a few he might like.

You manage to coerce him into talking more about his job, too. Apparently the primary goal of the lab was to establish a monster presence in the academic community and prove that a monster’s work could be a valuable asset to humanity.

“Because we’re so far behind in some subjects, human science organizations aren’t taking us seriously,” Sans explains, his mouth upturned in a little frown and his brow furrowed. “He’s not doing it on purpose, but the king has put a lot on our shoulders and there’s not enough of us to share the responsibility. Right now I’m trying to get access to a particle accelerator to test a theory I’m working on involving quarks but the closest human particle physics research lab isn’t working with me because there were some errors in the last paper I submitted to a research journal and -”

He stabs the ravioli on his plate a little too hard and looks up at you, cutting himself short. You must look as confused as you feel because his face goes slack.

“Uh, sorry,” he says.

“No, it’s okay,” you assure him. “I don’t really get everything you’re saying, but it’s cool to listen to. Um, it sounds like you’re pretty frustrated with the situation, though?”

He forces a smile back onto his face. “I just got used to being a lazybones Underground.”

“I dunno, this seems like the kind of thing that would stress anyone out. I sure couldn’t do it,” you say, idly pushing around the last bit of food on your plate.

“You could,” he says immediately.

You raise your brows in surprise. “You really think so?”

“I mean,” he says, looking away sheepishly, “you’re creative every day. And your work is out there for everyone to see and judge. I only have to worry about other nerds judging me. If you can handle that, you could handle the stress of research work.”

You beam at him. You don’t really agree - his work is so far out of your range of abilities that it’s not even comparable - but it’s sweet that he thinks that highly of you.

He grins nervously as the waiter comes back.

“Will this be one check, or two?” he asks as he clears off your table.

“One,” Sans says quickly.

You look at him, a little surprised. “You sure? I really don’t mind going dutch.”

“Nah,” he says, waving off the waiter who was glancing between the two of you, unsure. “I fully intend to demolish your pantry later, so don’t worry.”

You laugh, and something about his expression seems relieved.

After the bill is settled, the two of you head outside and Sans steps towards the alley, offering you his hand again.

“Actually,” you say, looking around. The sun is almost done setting and the city has already put out the Christmas lights on the street lamps and signage, even though it’s November. “It’s not that far, do you mind if we walk? The lights are kinda pretty.”

He shrugs. “Sure. Pap says I should get more exercise anyway.”

He’s about to stuff his hand back in his jacket pocket, but you hold out yours.

“We can still hold hands.” Saying it makes you feel a little childish, but you feel like you should ask instead of just grabbing it. You know he’s thought about cuddling, but you don’t want to cross any physical boundaries until he’s actually ready. “If you want, I mean.”

He seems thrown off by that and hesitates for a moment. “Uhh. Yeah, okay.”

He slips his cold, boney hand into yours, clasping it like you’re two elementary schoolers using the buddy system for a second before realizing how weird that looks and awkwardly lacing his fingers with yours as the two of you start walking back to your apartment. He’s grinning, but you can tell by his sockets and the sweat on his forehead that he’s panicking a little.

“If you’re uncomfortable -”

“No,” he says, quickly. “I mean, I am, but not because I don’t want to be doing this. It’s just… been a long time. Bear with me.”

You give him what you hope is a reassuring smile before looking at the Christmas lights as you pass them. You always feel a little conflicted about Christmas decorations. It’s a waste of energy and city resources, but you also find it hard to deny that your stupid monkey brain likes looking at multicolored, shiny lights.

“You’re warm,” he says, quietly.

“No, you’re just cold,” you say, laughing a little. “Seriously, how are you not shivering?”

“Pap and I don’t really feel the cold. Goes right through us.” He grins at the joke and you roll your eyes. “I’m more sensitive to heat.”

You hum thoughtfully.

Up ahead, you spot a couple people loitering outside a bar taking glances at you. You know that look. It doesn’t happen often, but it happens enough that you can see it coming. You grimace.

“Hey,” you say to Sans, “just so you know, we’re about to be accosted.”

“What?” Sans says, alarmed.

“Hey, it’s the skeleton fucker!” shouts one of the people outside the bar, waving at you.

You stop walking and grit your teeth. Most people don’t actually mean anything by it, but the nickname bothers you a little. People started calling you that online and now it’s leaked to real life.

Sans’s grip on your hand tightens and he moves closer to you, slightly in front of you, almost protectively. “Watch it, pal,” he says, his voice lowered and rumbling. Wow, you didn’t think Sans was capable of _growling_.

The guy raises his hands in a gesture of surrender. “I don’t mean it in a bad way! I think it’s cool, man.”

“Yeah,” agrees the goth looking chick he’s with. “I’m a fan. Love your stuff.” Her face is flat but her tone sounds sincere. “I was watching live when you did that first bit with the volcano. Fucking funny.”

The guy’s gaze slides down to where you and Sans’s hands are linked. “Woah,” he says, “are you guys together now?”

You and Sans both shrug at the same time.

The guy barks out a laugh and the goth cracks a smile. “Did y’all plan that?” he asks, shaking his head. “Well, whatever. It’s cool y’all made up.” To his friend, he says, “It’s fucking chilly, let’s go in.” And then, to you and Sans, he says, “Have a good one.”

You smile, a little relieved that this is a more pleasant encounter with someone who recognizes you. “Thanks, you too.”

Sans watches as they stumble back into the bar and the two of you start walking again. “That happen often?” he asks.

“Not really. Sometimes.” You glance at him. He seems to have relaxed now that they’re gone. “You never get stopped when you’re out?”

“Rarely,” he says. “I don’t go out much and some people are intimidated by the fact that I’m a monster.”

You wrinkle your nose. “You’re like, the least intimidating guy I know. Just now, when you growled at that guy, that’s probably the most intimidating I’ve ever seen you be.”

He snorts. “I didn’t _growl_.”

“You did too! You were like…” You make your voice as deep as you can and snarl, baring your teeth a little. “ _‘Watch it, pal!’_ It was…” Kinda hot. “Cool.”

You reach your apartment building and you bounce up the stairs. You’re excited - there’s bunch of classic so-bad-it’s-good movies that Sans apparently hasn’t seen yet, and you can’t imagine a better person to watch them with. He’s going to have the best commentary, you know it.

You glance behind you as you open your door, but you stop when you see the look on his face. He’s super tense and his grin looks fake. The lights in his eyes look a little hazy.

“Dude, you good?” you ask, your hand on the doorknob.

“Uhh,” he says, not quite looking at you. “Yeah. Sorry. Are we, uh… am I…” He trails off.

You smile anxiously. “You’re not gonna bail on me, are you?” you ask, keeping your tone light in case he actually _does_ want to leave.

He looks at you, directly into your eyes. His expression turns softer, more natural, less forced. His chest heaves upwards then descends like he just took a huge breath.

For some reason, you get the feeling that this is an important moment for him.

“Nah,” he says, sounding a lot less strained. “I’d be a total bonehead to bail before the main event of the evening.”

“Okay, good,” you say, opening your door with some relief. “Because I’m so fucking excited for you to see The Room for the first time.”

You shuck your jacket and shoes immediately, kicking your shoes over by the door and tossing your jacket on the chair you keep by the door, y’know, to throw jackets on. Sans does the same, following your lead.

“Hey,” you say. You wonder if maybe you shouldn’t ask this, but… you don’t think Sans would think poorly of you for it. “Would it totally ruin this date if I changed into pajama pants right now? Curling up on the couch in these pants isn’t ideal.”

“Wait, are you serious?” he asks, furrowing his brow at you. He mimes clutching his chest as though he’s having a heart attack, closing his sockets and throwing his head back dramatically. “Ugh… that’s the hottest thing anyone’s ever said to me. Shit, if I’d known that was an option I would’ve brought mine.”

You snort, which quickly devolves into giggling. “I won’t be offended if you take a magical shortcut home and come back.”

He looks at you seriously, though he’s still grinning. “You have to tell me if you’re joking, because I will actually do that.” He pauses, and looks a little nervous. “This is going way better than I thought it would and I don’t wanna mess it up now by changing into my jammie-jams when you were only kidding.”

“You’re gonna ruin it if you fucking call them ‘jammie-jams’ again.” You snicker, heading to your room. “No, but for real, I’m all about getting comfy if you are.”

He says, emphatically, “Yes, absolutely,” and walks right back out the front door, presumably disappearing back to his place.

You decide to not think about how that works right now.

You change into your comfiest pajama bottoms and a cute (but still comfy) tee, and by the time you walk back into the living room, Sans has already settled into the couch, wearing his usual shorts and a t-shirt.

You plop down heavily next to him. You’d set up your laptop to use the TV as the monitor earlier, so you can use pirate websites and not have to buy a dozen shitty movies. You lean over and wiggle your mouse on the coffee table, waking it out of sleep mode.

“So what’s first?” he asks.

“Okay, we have a plethora of options.” You open up your web browser, navigating to the list of bookmarks you’d made specifically for tonight. “We’ve got The Room, widely acclaimed as the best worst movie ever, so bad that someone wrote a book about it and then they made a movie based on that book. We’ve got Fateful Findings, a movie so nonsensical that the best plot synopsis I can give you is that it’s about a man who destroys laptops constantly and hacks the government while arguing with his wife. We’ve got Bee Movie, which stars Jerry Seinfeld as a bee who -”

“I pick Bee Movie,” Sans says, cutting you off.

You shoot him a look. “Seriously? I didn’t even finish telling you what it’s about.”

“I liked Seinfeld,” he says, shrugging. “The show, I mean. I binged all nine seasons.”

You roll your eyes. “You don’t know who the Kardashians are, but you’ve seen all of Seinfeld, a show that ended two decades ago. I wish I could be surprised, but I’m not.” You pull up the bookmark for Bee Movie and stand up, moving to the kitchen. “Anyway, this is going to be nothing like Seinfeld, so don’t get your hopes up. What do you wanna snack on? Microwave popcorn?”

“Whatever’s not good for me is fine,” he calls from the couch and you snort.

You make popcorn and grab what’s left of the Halloween candy you bought on discount the day after Halloween. You sit just a little closer to Sans when you return - not close enough to make him uncomfortable, but he could easily scooch up to your side if he wanted. You yank down the quilt you keep thrown over the back of the couch, pulling it over your legs.

You start the movie and, to your surprise, Sans actually does wiggle a little closer to you, stealing some of the blanket as he does so.

“Thought you didn’t get cold,” you say, teasingly.

“Doesn’t mean I don’t like to be warm,” he counters, though you hope that isn’t the only reason his bony knees are brushing up against yours.

Both of you are quiet as the opening scene of the movie unfolds.

“Is this really okay?” Sans asks, his voice hushed. “It just seems… I don’t know… not how first dates usually go. First dates end at the door with a romantic kiss or something, if you believe the movies.”

You look at him, and his brow is furrowed again as he glances up at you. “I mean,” you start. “It’s probably not, like, normal first date stuff. But…” You pause, looking away from him and flushing a little, trying to think of the right way to put it. “Like, I’ve done the rigmarole of acting like I’m someone I’m not, dressing up nicer and acting more proper and everything. And it’s just not realistic to maintain that long term. At some point you start to slowly drop the act. I probably wouldn’t go _quite_ this casual this fast if we weren’t friends beforehand, but like… if I can’t be the person I actually am with someone and have them still be attracted to me, what’s the point?”

He’s quiet for another moment and you wonder if maybe that was a little much. Did you take the comfy stuff too far? Maybe he was asking because you killed the mood for him? You have no clue what Sans’s idea of romance is like. You could’ve just blown this whole date.

But then he leans over you to snag a fun-size Snickers from from the bag of candy sitting next to you, and doesn’t completely return to the position he was in before, instead leaning against your shoulder a little.

“Well, I’m not complaining,” he says, and he sounds so sincere that you relax.

As the two of you slowly sink lower into the couch like you’re stuck in quicksand, you quickly realize that you were only half right about Sans having the best commentary. He has the best _worst_ commentary.

“Heh,” he says, as the bee played by Jerry Seinfeld argues with his human friend’s boyfriend, “he’s really _bugging_ that guy, isn’t he?”

You groan, though it turns into laughter halfway through. “This movie has enough shitty bee puns without you adding to it.”

“Aw, c’mon,” he whines, clearly stifling laughter. “I got a whole _swarm_ of ‘em _buzzin’_ around in my head.”

“Oh my GOD,” you shout. “ _Hive_ got half a mind to punch you so hard, it’ll _sting_ for weeks.”

He lets loose a throaty chuckle. His head lolls to the side as he laughs, resting on your shoulder. You curl your legs up closer to your body, and he does the same, his leg bone bumping up against your thigh.

At some point, his hand ends up in your lap, with your fingers wrapped loosely around his. It’s interesting how his phalanges are almost the same thickness as your fingers. You suppose they’d have to be or else they’d break all the time without skin and muscle to protect them. When the movie ends you almost don’t move to lean forward to grab the mouse because you don’t want to let go of his hand, but you don’t want to weird him out, so you do.

“Okay, which one next?” you ask him.

* * *

 

A third of the way through Birdemic, Sans realizes you’ve fallen asleep.

Your cheek is pressed to the top of his skull, one of your legs tangled with his, his upper leg bone thrown over your thigh. He’d snuck one of his arms around your back to rest his hand on your other hip, though he’s pretty sure it wasn’t that sneaky and you definitely noticed. One of your hands is on his leg and he puts his free hand on top of it, smoothing his fingers over the soft pad of skin near your thumb. The two of you are slouched so far into the seats that you may as well be laying down, may as well be sharing a bed together.

He revels in how warm you are, how soft you are. There’s no reason to pretend to pay attention to the movie anymore now that you’re asleep. He forgets when he started having trouble focusing on the screen - towards the end of Fateful Findings, maybe.

The two of you have practically trashed the area around the couch, after having demolished two bags of popcorn (mostly your doing) and countless candy bars and other treats (mostly Sans’s fault).

He can’t believe how well this has gone. He can’t believe he’s gotten exactly what he wanted - cuddling with you, goofing off and cracking jokes and feeling closer to someone than he’s felt in a long time.

He lets his head slip a little further into the crook of your neck. You smell faintly of butter - from the popcorn - and laundry detergent.

He can’t help but wonder if this is really what you want, though. You’d said all that stuff about being yourself around someone, but that doesn’t necessarily mean that you’re actually still attracted to him after all this. Part of him still expects you to tell him you’ve lost whatever feelings you had for him before. Maybe he killed the mood for you, and this is just you making him feel better? He has no clue what your idea of romance is like. He could’ve just blown this whole date.

You make a soft noise in your sleep, your hand twitching in his lap. He pulls his hand away from yours, puts it on your upper arm where the blanket isn’t covering. He can’t really tell if it’s cold, but it’s not as warm as the rest of you, so he pulls the blanket up a little.

You twitch again and shift, your hand coming up to rest on his rib cage. His soul lurches and starts pulsating somewhere deep within him.

He’s immediately a little disgusted with himself for wanting more than this. This was supposed to be the end goal for him, he’d decided this was _it_. This was the ideal outcome, an ideal relationship where the two of you could basically be the friends you already were, plus just a little bit of emotional vulnerability and some physical closeness. He thought this was the extent of what he wanted, that any thoughts of anything further were just him being curious, just his mind getting a little carried away.

After all, how would it even work? How would he navigate doing _more_ with you when nothing about your forms is compatible? You were curious about his biology, but curiosity alone can’t make up for such a large gap between two sapient species.

It’s hard to deny that he wants more now that he’s probably spent a third of the evening wondering what it would be like if were doing exactly what the two of you had done all night, but with fewer clothes. He wishes he wasn’t wearing a shirt so he could feel your warm palm directly on his bones.

He allows himself to entertain, for a moment, a scenario where he’s brave enough to try to make it work. To find something analogous to a kiss that would work for you - because he can’t kiss, the ridges around his mouth can move but not stick out enough to make it functional for kissing, and he’s vaguely aware of how important kissing is to human intimacy. To find some way to make you feel good by touching between your legs without any equipment but his fingers.

To find some way that you could touch his bones and the echoes of his soul in the way he’d like to to be touched.

Ugh, it feels even worse to think about it now that you’re asleep. He feels like he’s taking advantage of you.

He turns his attention back to the screen. Wow, you weren’t kidding, these special effects are incredibly bad.

He can feel your soft breath on his face as you snore quietly. He nudges his head just a little bit more towards your neck, and he can feel the soft thump of your heart beat.

This is _it_ , he tells himself. He can be satisfied with just this. He already feels so wholly surrounded by your presence, engulfed in your warmth, that he doesn’t need more. He’d never ask for more.

He falls asleep to the sound of your heartbeat and shitty, freeware bird sound effects.


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> another shorter one, apologies

You wake up on the couch with Sans’s hand halfway up your shirt and his kneecap digging into your thigh. He’s practically laying on top of you, one of his legs in between yours and his face pressed to your chest, his arms wrapped around your middle. He’s got a fairly tight grip on you, tight enough that you might be able to stand up and have him hanging off you like a koala.

That’s a tempting idea, but it’s probably better if you just get him untangled from you.

Gently, you wrap a hand around the two bones of his forearm and try to pull his hand out from under your shirt. He just groans and pulls away from your grasp, clutching you tighter.

“Five more minutes,” he mumbles sleepily, and wow, okay, he’s really just gonna rub his face all up in boobtown, huh?

Your face feels a little warm. You’re pretty sure Sans isn’t fully awake and doesn’t realize what he’s doing, or else he’d be supremely embarrassed. Should you just let him sleep and hope he lets go on his own? Wake him up and crack a joke to play it off like it’s no big deal?

Well, he did say he was okay with you teasing him a little.

“Dude, you’re basically motorboating me,” you say, grinning and tugging lightly on his arm again.

“What,” he says flatly. He looks up at your face, his sockets slowly going wide as he realizes what kind of position he’s in. He jolts away, ripping his arm out from under your shirt and dislodging the blanket thrown over the two of you, exposing your tummy to the cool air for a minute before you can tug your shirt back down. He scuffles all the way to the other side of the couch, his face turning blue.

“Shit, sorry, sorry,” he says frantically, “I wasn’t trying - I just do that in my sleep, I wasn’t -”

You just laugh, rearranging your clothes and hair because you’re a bit of a mess. You hadn’t meant to fall asleep on the couch. “Chill, it’s okay,” you assure him. “You good, though? Your face is all blue.”

He looks away. “Is it? Uhh…”

Physically, he seems fine, but his face is practically glowing with the neon blue color at this point. He doesn’t have blood or capillaries, so maybe it’s his magic concentrating in his face? Considering the situation, he’s probably just… 

“Oh my god,” you say, snorting. “Are you  _ blushing _ ?”

“No,” he says quickly, a grin creeping onto his face. “Shut up. How come your face is barely even red? Isn’t that supposed to be a private spot for humans?”

You shrug. “I mean, kinda, but it’s whatever. You didn’t mean to.” You stand up, leaning back and cracking your back. “Oof. Okay, don’t let me fall asleep on the couch again, I feel terrible.”

You look back to Sans to find him wincing. “Don’t do that, it sounds like it hurts.”

“Sorry. Didn’t know it bothered you.” You resist the urge to do it again. “It doesn’t hurt though, it feels good actually.”

“Isn’t the sound caused by gas bubbles popping in the joints between your bones?” he asks, looking uncomfortable. “That sounds like it’d be incredibly painful.”

“Umm,” you start, puttering around and picking up some of the trash from last night while Sans lounges on the couch. “I don’t know the science behind it, but it’s kind of like… like, you’re tense, and it relieves some of the pressure in your body when it pops. You don’t ever get a crick in your neck or anything?”

He thinks for a moment. “Monster biology is pretty different since we’re mostly fueled by magic. We have… something like that. If we don’t move for a long time, or get hurt, the flow of our magic might hiccup and make it more difficult to move that part.”

“Hm,” you say. It’s interesting, learning these little things about how monsters are different. “Hey, you want breakfast?”

“I could eat,” he says, finally getting off the couch.

He ends up staying until after noon.

* * *

 

Later that night, Yves bombards you with messages. You’re sitting on the couch, dicking around on your laptop when the notifications pop up on your open Facebook tab.

 

**Yves:** OMIGOSH WHY DIDN’T U TELL ME U HAD A DATE WITH SANS

**Yves:** U GUYS LOOK SO CUUUUTE

 

There’s a slew of questions after that, and some more caps lock fangirling. You ignore all of them.

 

**You:** hold up. how did you know we went on a date?

**Yves:** Umm. Uh oh. U dont know?

**You:** know what??

 

She doesn’t say anything else, just sends you a link. Your stomach drops as you click it.

It’s a tweet by someone whose handle you don’t recognize. The text of the tweet is short - “Victim of @realmtt’s defunct Love Match segment now dating their match!?” Attached to the tweet are a few photos. You and Sans at the Italian place, Sans resting his chin in his hands with his elbows on the table, looking at you with a lazy grin as you say something, you gesturing with your hands the way you sometimes do when you’re excited. You and Sans standing outside the restaurant by the door, obviously taken from the inside since you can see a little bit of the window frame close to the camera. You and Sans walking back to your apartment, facing away from the camera, hand in hand with fingers laced, Sans’s skull inclined and turned slightly as though he’s about to look at you.

Jesus Christ, seriously? Had this person followed you out of the restaurant, like some kind of paparazzi? At least there’s no photo of the two of you at your apartment. This person definitely would’ve included a photo of Sans standing outside or going through your front door if they had one, so you’re pretty sure they didn’t trail you all the way home.

You click back to Facebook, sending the link to Sans before you reply to Yves.

 

**You:** ughhhhhh what the fuuuuck… im not a fucking celebrity, why would someone do this?

**Yves:** Im sorry! I thought for sure youd have already seen it last night!

**You:** no, i was with sans all night

**Yves:** !!!!!!!!!!!!

**Yves:** Ok I am respecting your boundaries by saying u don’t have 2 tell me anything but I really really wanna know everything!!!

 

You consider it for a moment. Yves is a bit of a blabbermouth, but now that people are apparently taking photos of you and Sans together, it’s not like she could do any damage by letting something slip.

 

**You:** ok so… sans told me a little while ago that he had some not so platonic feelings for me and we’re just testing the waters

**You:** we went on a little date and afterwards we watched shit movies at my place and both passed out on the couch

**Yves:** Ummmmm YA DUH he has feelings for you… he’s practically looking at you like a lovesick puppy in that first pic

 

You click back to the tweet and take a second look at the photo. Sans doesn’t look any different from how he usually looks. He’s just listening intently.

 

**You:** ummm no he’s not

**Yves:** Uh huh sure……….

**Yves:** Did you guys…. ya know…… ;)

**You:** nothing really happened. we got pretty close on the couch and fell asleep on each other but that’s it

**Yves:** Awww, like an old married couple

 

You grimace. She’s joking, but that kind of strikes a nerve. You’re still worried maybe you ruined your shot at this thing with Sans being more than platonic by getting too comfortable. If Sans is never interested in being physically intimate with you, you could live with that, but you’d rather not sabotage whatever slim chance you have.

Sans replies to your message.

 

**sans:** fuck

**sans:** im sorry

**You:** what are you sorry for? i’m not upset with you, this isn’t your fault. just thought you should see it if you haven’t already. i found out from yves :/

**sans:** feel bad that youre basically getting stalked cuz youre hanging out with me

**You:** it’s not so bad, doesn’t seem like they followed us all the way home. besides, you’re just as much of a victim as me, you goof

**sans:** guess so

 

You sigh, sinking back into the cushions. This situation actually makes you super uncomfortable, but you don’t want Sans to feel bad.

You really love making web content. You love making videos, editing images, making goofy shit and having other people enjoy it. It’s why you came back to MTTFeed, because it’s the first place where you can actually be creative.

But you’re not sure you like the attention that comes with being a public figure.

It’s tempting to just drop off the internet altogether sometimes. You would, if creating content wasn’t vital to your happiness and your satisfaction in your job.

* * *

 

A few days later, Mettaton sends you an email asking you to drop by his office without saying why. When you get there, Sans is lounging in one of the seats by Mettaton’s desk.

“Hey, what’re you doing here?” you ask, sitting down in the other chair.

Sans shrugs. “Dunno yet,” he replies, looking at Mettaton.

Mettaton looks up from whatever he’s typing on his computer. “I have a proposition for the two of you.”

Sans’s grin widens. “I dunno if we’re that kind of couple, buddy.”

You gasp, your cheeks turning pink, more from him saying you’re a couple than from the insinuation. For someone afraid to do more than cuddle, he sure doesn’t shy away from making dirty jokes. You smack him on the arm lightly, stifling a laugh.

Mettaton shoots him a look, frowning, unamused. “ _ Anyway _ ,” he says, tersely, rolling his eyes. “Undyne and Alphys have started reviewing anime on a podcast, and their couple dynamic and chemistry has made it a hit. Reviews are in, podcasts are in. MTTFeed is barely making any content that people can consume with their ears only. I want you two to do a review podcast - I don’t care  _ what _ you review, just pick something you like.”

“No,” Sans says immediately, before you can even process the idea.

Mettaton looks a little surprised that he refused so quickly. “Why not?”

“I’m not monetizing my relationship,” Sans says, sounding a little angry, and your cheeks burn harder. A month ago he wasn’t even sure if he liked you, and now after one date you’re in a relationship?! “Met, I told you I’d do the streams and that’s it. You’re lucky I’ve been doing additional videos with them,” he says, nodding his head towards you.

Mettaton frowns. “The two of you make good content together. You’re easily one of the funnier duos we have in the company. You expect me not to capitalize on that?” He rubs at his temples, although you’re not sure what good that does for him since it’s not like the metallic skin is budging under the pressure he’s applying. “Darling, this is barely any different from what the two of you have  _ been _ doing. You’re acting as though I’ve asked you to have a passionate makeout session on camera.”

Sans leans forward in his seat, his brow bone turned sharply down in the middle. “We’re being _ photographed on the street _ now. I’m not about to throw gas on that fire. My personal life isn’t for public consumption.”

Shit. You didn’t realize he was that upset by that tweet. You feel bad that you didn’t comfort him after you sent it to him.

Mettaton sighs and looks at you. “What do you have to say to all this?”

You fiddle with the hem of your shirt, anxiously. “Umm… I’m not going to force Sans into this if he doesn’t want to do it. Besides, my focus is on video, not audio.” 

“Just think about it,” Mettaton says, pressing the issue.

“We’re not doing it,” Sans says, firmly.

“Haven’t Undyne and Alphys been dating for like… a while?” you ask. “Them making content as a couple is different from us doing it. We’ve, like, barely started dating and we had a rocky start. We’re still figuring stuff out. If we record, like, a half hour to an hour of just us talking… some of that is gonna come through and people are going to talk about it.”

Mettaton sighs again. “Can we at least revisit this later, in a few months? Or can you come up with some other project the two of you might work on together?”

At the same time, you say, “Maybe,” and Sans says, “No.” The two of you exchange a look, yours pleading and his confused. 

“...Maybe,” he says, reluctantly.

“Okay,” says Mettaton, turning back to his computer. “That’s all for now, then.”

You and Sans get up and step out of the office, closing the door behind you. He looks at you, still confused.

“You actually want to do this?” he asks, his voice hushed so that Mettaton can’t hear from behind the door.

“I don’t know,” you admit. “I agree that we definitely shouldn’t do it right now. But I don’t think we should rule out making couple content forever. I don’t like my private life being public either, but… it’s inevitable with the job that I’m doing. And I love my job.” You pause. “I love the stuff we make together.”

He looks a little surprised at that. “I do too,” he says, quickly. “I’m just… I don’t know. I’ll think about it.”

“By the way,” you say, smiling and heading towards the elevator. “How come I never got the memo that we’re an official ‘couple’ in a ‘relationship’ now?”

“Uhh,” he says, looking sheepish as he follows you. His cheekbones are just barely tinted blue - you’d thought that morning when you’d caught him sleeping on top of you was the first time you’d seen him blush, but maybe it’s just usually such a subtle color difference that you didn’t notice before. “Sorry - I just thought -”

You laugh as you punch the down button. “Relax, it’s okay. I don’t mind, I was just surprised, since you were so cagey about getting involved with me in the first place.”

“Yeah, well…” he says, trailing off, seemingly at a loss for words. “S’almost noon. You wanna grab lunch?”

“Sure,” you say as the elevator dings.

The two of you step on, and as soon as the doors close, he slips his hand into yours, squeezing it gently.


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry for the delay i was sick for one thousand years  
> also sorry if its ooc??? i don't typically pick fics back up after dropping them for more than like a week

Sans lays awake at night feeling like a stupid dumbass idiot.

The meeting in Mettaton’s office was a couple weeks ago, but he’s still thinking about it. Why did he say that? Why did he go ahead and slap a label on what the two of you had without asking? He didn’t _mean_ to - but what else was he supposed to call it, right? It’s fine. You’d said it was fine. And the two of you have been on more dates since then - it’s at the point now where most people would probably start calling it a relationship out of convenience, if nothing else. It’s just a stupid word. Just a label to make it easier to explain to other people.

A label that makes sure that people know you’re _his_ , that you’re not up for grabs, so you won’t get ripped out from under him -

He squashes that line of thinking quickly, groaning and covering his head with a pillow.

This is why he feels bad. Part of it is a fear of scaring you off, even though you’d said it was fine, but it’s also that he’s laid a claim on you without asking permission first. He doesn’t understand why it doesn’t bother you. He knows announcing a relationship sometimes isn’t as big of a deal for humans as it is for monsters - but sometimes it _is_ a huge deal, isn’t it? He read somewhere that becoming “Facebook official” was a big thing, worthy of making a little bit of a fuss over.

Sometimes he feels like he doesn’t understand anything about humans at all. And he’s so worried that his lack of understanding is going to ruin how well things are going with you.

Sans hates that he lives with the eternal, lingering fear that everything he has, every good thing in his life, will be suddenly pulled away, leaving him with only vague memories of what he had before. Even now, years after monsters have been free of the Underground, that fear is there. It makes him worry, makes him over analyze every misstep he makes, makes him cling to the things that are important to him.

He pulls the pillow away from his face and picks up his phone, checking the time.

1:15 AM.

He checks Facebook, hoping you’re still awake, because talking to you is always a good distraction. It’s the weekend, so there’s a possibility you’re not asleep yet. There’s a little green circle indicating you’re online, so he sends you a message.

 

 **sans:** u up?

 **You:** depends, is this a booty call

 

He grins. He likes that he can joke about stuff like this with you. Like most things, it’s easier to broach the difficult subject if it’s only a joke, easier to flirt if the two of you are only playing around.

Sometimes, when he’s really lonely, he’ll reread your messages and pretend you’re not joking.

 

 **sans:** maybe

 **sans:** depends, are you offering

 **You:** maybe

 **You:** depends, will it be worth the effort of changing out of this shirt that i got spaghetti sauce on earlier?

 **sans:** why bother putting something else on to replace it when you’re just gonna get right back out of it

 **You:** ummmmm

 **You:** are we still only joking or are you… serious

 

He cringes. Whoops, took the joke too far.

 

 **sans:** joking, sorry

 **sans:** just couldnt sleep

 

You don’t message back for a while, long enough that his phone’s screen goes dark from inactivity, and he starts to worry. Sometimes it feels like he’s playing with fire when he makes these kinds of jokes, and one day he’s going to fuck up and say something that legitimately makes you uncomfortable and you’ll drop him like the sack of trash that he is. On some level, he also recognizes that’s exactly why he keeps making those jokes. It’s because he likes teetering on the edge of something, because a small part of him hopes the scale will tip in his favor instead.

He’s contemplating sending you a second apology when his screen lights up.

 

 **You:** same

 **You:** you wanna come over?

 

Immediately, something’s burning inside his ribcage. He knows you’re just offering to hang out - you’d never pushed him when he clarified he was joking about something before, always careful not to make him uncomfortable - but the _situation_ , the _optics_ of it, have his mind racing. He’s made impromptu late-night visits to see you a couple times before, to watch movies or play games or something equally innocent and inane. But not after midnight, not when both of you were already in bed but struggling to sleep, not after joking about hooking up -

An image of a reoccurring daydream flashes through his mind, a fantasy of being curled up in your bed next to you, your arms around him, safe, warm, his nasal bone pressed up against the underside of your chin, the tips of his fingers hesitantly touching soft skin hidden under an oversized t-shirt.

His sternum feels like it’s been doused in kerosene and lit on fire. Briefly, he wonders if this is what heartburn feels like for humans.

He only realizes his phone screen has gone dark again when it lights up with another message from you.

 

 **You:** sans?

 **You:** no pressure, you can say no, i just thought it’d be nice to try sleeping together. since we fell asleep so easily on the couch that one time

 

Sans feels a sharp pain inside of his ribcage as his soul twists into knots and threatens to leap out of his body.

After the incident on the couch, he’d been very, very careful to leave your apartment before he got too sleepy. He was terrified it’d happen again, that he’d do something even more embarrassing in his sleep the next time, that he’d act on some repressed impulse to be close to you.

And now you’re _offering_ to sleep with him.

Something in his train of thought short-circuits and his mind goes blank.

He gets up out of bed without thinking about what he’s doing. He feels jittery, his body pulsing with energy that he’s trying to suppress. His face and chest still feel warm, too warm, but he’s barely cognizant of it anymore. It suddenly doesn’t seem that important, certainly less important than getting to wherever you are, right away.

He shortcuts to your apartment - he’s done it enough times by now that it’s easy, he barely has to think about it - and finds himself standing dumbly in your living room. The lights are off. He steps forward and knocks his knee on your coffee table in the dark. He’s faintly aware of himself saying, “Ow.”

There’s a soft gasp from the bedroom, then the sounds of someone moving around very quickly, and you suddenly burst into the living room, flicking the light switch on with one hand and wielding a bat in the other. You pause, weapon raised, staring at him for a moment before you recognize who he is and your face relaxes. You let out a heavy breath and lower the bat.

“Oh my God, dude,” you say, your voice a mixture of relief and exasperation. “You have to _tell_ me before you show up, I thought I was gonna get murdered.”

“Sorry,” he says, stupidly. There’s another pause as the two of you stare at each other, and he belatedly realizes you aren’t wearing pants, only underwear. Sans feels his face morph from whatever gormless expression he was wearing before into something more terrified and suitable for the current situation. “Sorry!” he says again, louder and with alarm.

You’re also late in realizing the awkwardness of your outfit, only just now tugging at your t-shirt and shifting your bare legs as though wishing you could hide them. Sans wishes he would stop staring at them.

“Um, it’s okay,” you say, trying to be polite, but even in his addled state Sans can tell you’re uncomfortable.

“I should go,” he says, his voice strained. He still can’t quite think straight because his soul is still vibrating in his chest, but he at least has the wherewithal to know that this is a terrible situation and he should probably bail as quickly as possible.

Bizarrely, you look a little sad. Sans isn’t sure what expression he was expecting you to make, but “sad” didn’t even occur to him. “You could stay,” you tell him, quietly. You still look uncomfortable, holding the bat close to your body. “Laying in bed alone trying to sleep is really boring.”

“Okay,” he says, immediately.

Your brows raise in surprise at how easily he agrees, but you don’t comment on it. Instead, you just hold the bedroom door open and shuffle to one side, propping the bat against the wall.

He makes to enter but stops in the doorway and pulls you into a hug.

He likes hugging you. You’re soft and you smell good and he likes how he can feel the subtle movement of your breathing when his hands are on your back. He wishes you’d hug him longer when you do hug, but he guesses you must feel awkward about squeezing him back, because you usually pull away first. He wonders if maybe you’re worried you’ll break him - you’d said once that you instinctively think of him as fragile since there’s nothing protecting his bones.

This time, you don’t pull away, and he gets to bury his face in the crook of your neck. He pulls you close enough that your chest presses against his ribs, clings to your shirt like he’s afraid you’ll let go.

You nudge him towards the bed and he clumsily drags you over, pulling you onto the mattress and getting his legs tangled up in your comforter in the process. There’s some awkward repositioning - you laugh a little, and he’s grateful for the sound because the silence is almost oppressive. He ends up half laying on top of you, his face still pressed up against your neck, one of his hands at the hem of your shirt exactly the way he fantasized about except you’re not even wearing pajama pants and if he dips his fingers lower at all he can feel the waistband of your underwear.

Fuck, he thinks, dumbly, as he slides his thumb over the soft skin of your hip. Oh, fuck. His whole body is warm and he can feel your pulse against his cheekbone. He’s so close to you, and you _want_ him to be this close to you. He could die happily like this. Your soft, bare thighs brush against his leg bones and he thinks he might actually turn to dust. His soul has settled into a powerful hum, a pleasant thrumming behind his sternum. He wonders if you can hear it, feel the magic pulsating through his sternum as it presses against you, the way he can hear and feel your heartbeat.

Your hand is creeping around the edges of his shirt, hesitantly. For some reason, this surprises Sans. In his fantasies, he only briefly considered you touching him back in ways more intimate than wrapping your arms around him. Part of him expected you to avoid touching him entirely.

You seem unsure of where to begin, thrown off by how much empty space there is under his shirt. Your fingertips brush against one of his ribs and he jolts, the pulse of his soul stuttering. You stop.

“Is this okay?” you ask, your voice hushed, and Sans nods without thinking about it. His face has somehow slipped closer down to your chest, away from your neck, and both his hands are on the bare skin of your back. He tries not to think about how similar this position is to the one he woke up to on your couch weeks ago. He’s suddenly anxious, nervous, instead of hazy and blank. This isn’t how he thought it’d go.

Your fingers start moving again, exploratory and cautious. They skirt the outside of his ribs, before dipping lower, gently touching the inside instead. For a moment, Sans feels weightless, feels like he might burst, like his magic might explode out of him, but then your fingers move closer to his sternum and something twists and he’s hit with a terrible, nasty feeling, an ache in his soul.

Not like this, he thinks. This is messy and he’s barely mentally present and you probably don’t quite understand what you’re doing. He wants you to understand. No one’s touched him for a very long time and if you’re going to touch him he wants you to understand, to feel the magnitude of what this means for him. His thoughts are still fuzzy but behind the fog is fear and he doesn’t like that at all. It doesn’t feel right, he thinks. Not yet, not now, not like this. He wants it to be different.

He yanks his hand out from under your shirt and grabs your wrist a little rougher than he meant to. “Stop,” he manages to say, and his voice cracks and he feels stupid and childish.

You pull back and look at his face. He’s not sure what he looks like at the moment, but whatever you see makes you let out a soft, “Oh!” and you quickly bring your hand close to your chest, away from him. “I’m sorry. Are you okay?” you ask.

“It’s not you,” Sans says quickly, and he’s pretty sure that’s true. He tries to think of what else to say. He feels like he owes you an explanation, but he has no idea where to start.

You seem totally unperturbed by the lack of reasoning, though. Instead, your face is soft with gentle concern for him. You awkwardly put your arm around him, over his shirt, slowly so that he has plenty of time to brush you off if he’s uncomfortable. He doesn’t. It feels nice. The painful pulse in his chest isn’t as painful anymore.

“It’s okay,” you tell him, and he can tell by your tone that you’re not sure what’s wrong, but you’re trying to communicate that you’re not upset with him, and he appreciates that. He knows, logically, that you’re not the kind of person that would ever hold this against him, but the fear and the worry creeping at the edges of his consciousness tell him he’s a fuck-up who can’t decide what he wants and you’ll hate him forever.

“We can just stay like this ‘til you fall asleep,” you add, and he nods, shifting his position so that his nasal bone is pressed against the underside of your chin, just the way he imagined.

He still feels like a fucking fool, but you’re here and you still feel warm and safe and you aren’t pushing him away, and that’s something.

* * *

 

Sans is cagey in the morning.

You’re pretty sure he’s already awake when you stir and untangle yourself from him, because he’s up almost immediately.

“I should go,” he says, awkwardly, as he slides out of your bed. It’s the same thing he said last night.

“You could stay,” you tell him, echoing the conversation while rearranging your hair.

Instead of agreeing like he did before, he looks uncomfortable. He won’t look at you. You’d let it drop, but you can’t forget how spooked he looked when he told you to stop. This doesn’t feel like something you can just avoid talking about indefinitely.

“Sans,” you say, seriously. “Are you okay?” He’d never actually answered that question last night, but you didn’t want to press him while he was clearly vulnerable.

“‘M fine,” he says, and he’s very obviously forcing himself to sound jovial. He looks at you, smiling, and you frown at him. His smile falters.

“We don’t have to talk about it now, but we should talk about what happened at some point,” you say, as softly as you can, careful not to sound judgmental about his avoidance of the issue. “You looked really freaked out… I just want to make sure you’re okay.”

He grimaces, looking away and sitting back down on the bed next to you. “Look, I don’t - I don’t know what happened,” he says, a little tersely. “I just got freaked out. I don’t know.”

“Was it something I did?” you ask. He’d said last night that it wasn’t you, but you were a little afraid he was just saying that so you wouldn’t feel hurt.

“No,” he says, and he seems pretty confident about that. “I just… I wasn’t expecting… I wasn’t ready. Ugh.” He pinches his nasal bone and closes his sockets, looking annoyed with himself. “That sounds really stupid.”

“It doesn’t,” you say, honestly. “If you’re not ready, then you’re not ready. I just wanted to make sure I didn’t, like… miss any signals or go too far or…” You trail off.

“No,” Sans says again. “It was fine until suddenly it wasn’t.” He buries his face in his hands, letting out another frustrated noise. “That’s why this is so stupid - I was fine. I was… into it…”

He seems distinctly uncomfortable talking about his sexuality. This isn’t the first time you’ve noticed it. He’s perfectly fine joking around, but he seems to struggle with the idea of talking about it seriously with you. You’re not sure if it’s a cultural thing, or something he’s personally insecure about, or if it’s the species difference making him uncomfortable. Maybe it’s a combination of things.

You’re quiet for a moment, trying to think of the best way to ask him why it’s an issue.

Before you can say anything, he continues, “I didn’t think you’d want to touch me.”

“Oh,” you breathe, and it makes a little more sense.

“I just need - you have to know it’s been a long time. For me. Since I…” He trails off. “It’s been a long time since I’ve been this close to someone. And I’ve never been this close to a human. I don’t know what I’m doing, or what to expect. So it’s hard.”

“I get it,” you say, putting your hand on his shoulder in what you hope is a comforting gesture. “You don’t have to force yourself.”

“I do... want it,” he says, stiffly, and you’re not sure if he’s trying reassure you or himself. He rubs his hands over his face - which makes a weird clacking noise - before finally letting them fall to his lap. He leans against your side, his skull bumping against your shoulder. “I just - I don’t know.”

“You don’t have to justify not being ready,” you say, and he sighs.

The two of you fall quiet. You don’t have anything left to say, and it seems like Sans doesn’t either. You’re glad he’s still comfortable being close to you. You were worried things would be weird after last night, that he’d avoid coming close to you, but he seems to like cuddling just as much as he did before.

You quickly realize exactly how comfortable he is when he starts to snore.


	12. Chapter 12

Christmas is rapidly approaching and you have no idea what to get Sans as a gift.

The two of you had discussed a while back whether you wanted to celebrate the holiday. You weren’t particularly religious, and evidently the winter holidays were a little different Underground, so Sans wasn’t particularly attached to the idea of Christmas either. But Papyrus was apparently very into the human holiday thanks to Frisk’s influence, which meant Sans was obligated to celebrate it with him, and most of the people you knew celebrated it too, so the two of you decided you may as well exchange gifts and do other Christmassy things.

You poke at your lunch, look at the selection of joke books on Amazon on your phone, and frown. You’re starting to regret that decision, because Sans isn’t an easy person to shop for. You can’t get him clothes because he hardly ever wears anything besides a t-shirt and shorts. He doesn’t have any niche hobbies, he doesn’t collect anything, he hardly seems to want material possessions at all.

A joke book seems like a lame gift, but it’s the only thing you’ve thought of so far that he’d actually use.

“Hiii!” Yves says cheerfully, flouncing into the break room and plopping down in the seat next to you. “You look like you’re having a miserable time,” she observes.

You try to smooth out the crease in your forehead. “I can’t figure out what to get Sans for Christmas,” you grumble.

“Oooh,” she breathes, nodding. She looks down for a moment, considering the situation as she pulls her neatly packed lunch out of her bag. “Why don’t you make him something? You’re, like, pretty crafty. I’ve seen the stuff you and Sans make for the streams.”

You look up from your phone. There’s enough time before Christmas that you could conceivably make something, but… “What would I make for him?” you ask.

She shrugs. “I dunno, some kinda cutesy coupley thing? Mmm… maybe that’s not really Sans’s style, though.” She frowns. “He doesn’t seem all that sentimental and even though you guys are dating now, I’ve never seen him act all lovey-dovey.”

You think about the mess of old projects and stream props that Sans has hoarded in his room, some of which you know for a fact he’s dug out of the trash or stolen from the prop room. He’s kept as many of the things you worked on together as he could. He comes off as aloof, but you know him well enough by now to know it’s mostly an act. The fact is he’s a bit of a sap.

“Actually,” you say, the gears already turning, “that’s a pretty good idea.”

* * *

 

Sans waltzes into Alphys’s lab without bothering to knock. It’s lunchtime, but Alphys always takes her lunch break at weird hours, so it doesn’t really matter. Predictably, she’s tapping away at one of her many computers.

“Hey,” he says, casually, moving a haphazard stack of papers off a stool so he can sit down.

Alphys tears her gaze away from the screen for just a moment to shoot him a smile. “Hi!” she responds, happily. She’s got dark bags under her eyes but her tone doesn’t sound forced, so she’s probably making good progress on whatever it is she’s working on. “Wh-what’s up?”

“I was wondering,” Sans starts, deciding there’s no good segue into what he wants to ask, “what you’re getting Undyne for Christmas.”

“Oh!” she exclaims, looking excited. “There’s a workout gadget she’s been wanting but she can’t justify buying it to do a review because it’s not that exciting. I’m also thinking I might get her a figure of her favorite character from that shonen anime she likes - the one with the fighting ghosts, you know?” She pauses and catches herself before she can get too carried away. “Why do you ask?”

“Uhh… I don’t really know what get, um, my…” Sans trails off. He still feels weird calling you his “partner” or something similar. It only ever comes out right when he’s not thinking about it.

Alphys shoots him a sympathetic look, but it doesn’t feel patronizing. That’s part of why he feels comfortable enough to come ask her for advice. She’s been where he is. She was a bit of a mess at the start of her relationship with Undyne. Sans knows she won’t judge him.

“Well, I-I don’t think they’d like the kind of gifts I’d get Undyne!” she jokes, turning back to her computer. “What kind of stuff do they like?”

“Bad movies,” Sans says, immediately. “Some video games. Stupid jokes.” He pauses. “Everything I think of is stuff that can’t be bought, or stuff they already have. I could get them a game, I guess, but that’s pretty boring.”

Alphys seems to understand what the actual issue is. She nods, pushes her glasses up her snout. “You want it to be something more special than that,” she says, and Sans nods in agreement. She’s quiet for a minute, just typing away, and Sans lets her think. “You could make something? That’d be special. They liked that model of the solar system you made, right?”

Sans hums, thinking. He’s not that great at crafty stuff, but he _could_ make something. He thinks of the sorts of things he’s helped you make for gags on stream before - stupid stuff, stuff that made you laugh. He’s adequate with machinery when he actually bothers to try, so he could make you something that moves this time, something dumb that you can mess with that would make you smile. He remembers that once he caught you watching a compilation video of those “useless machines,” the ones where you flick a switch and they turn themselves back off again. He’s capable of making something like that.

He realizes he’s been staring silently off into space for a while and glances at Alphys, who’s giving him a bemused look. He clears his non-existent throat. It was a learned behavior, something he picked up from social interaction, rather than something he actually needed to do. “That’s a good idea. Thanks.”

She just smiles and goes back to typing. “Speaking of the holidays,” she says, “I bet it’s a relief that you have a date for Asgore’s party this year, huh?”

Sans furrows his brow for a moment before realizing what she’s talking about. Every year since the barrier was broken, Asgore has thrown a huge fancy party at his place, sometime in between Hanukkah and Christmas. Sans managed to weasel out of going to them in previous years. He’d find an excuse to be anywhere else on that day, and show up to Toriel’s more intimate and casual party closer to Christmas to make up for it. He got away with it since he wasn’t anyone important - they were stuffy, pseudo-official affairs usually covered by local human press. No one expected some random, obscure friend of the royal family to be there. But now he’s a royal scientist, technically part of the royal court, and it’d look really bad if he didn’t attend. Papyrus had reminded him to RSVP a little while ago, and Sans had promptly forgotten about it anyway.

He groans, putting his head in his hands.

“You completely forgot about it, didn’t you?” Alphys asks, amused.

“ _Yes_ ,” Sans moans.

“It’s next weekend, Sans,” she says, trying to sound reproachful but mostly sounding like she’s going to laugh.

“ _Noooo,_ ” he moans again.

“At least you’ll have a date,” she reminds him again. “I mean, I’m assuming they’d go with you?”

“Probably,” he says. Maybe he can suck some modicum of fun out of the situation by cracking jokes with you all night. Maybe that’d offset the misery of wearing and being photographed in an uncomfortable suit. Oh no… he doesn’t even own a suit. He’ll have to buy or rent one. Buy, probably, since not even monsters make suits that fit him well off the rack. He moans one more time.

Alphys just pats him on the shoulder sympathetically.

* * *

 

“This blows,” you hiss quietly at Sans, before taking a sip of what might be champagne. You’re not sure what it is, really. You just grabbed whatever looked alcoholic. You’re going to need alcohol to cope with this stuffy event. You’d heard the king was nice and personable despite his imposing status and physical stature, so how come this “party” totally sucked? You feel out of place standing in the Monster Society Community Center, which has been dressed up to look more like a ballroom. You’ve never been here before, but Sans said it’s normally used as a sort of town hall for the local monster population, a place to talk about political issues in an open forum or file complaints with royal staff.

You feel weird wearing a formal outfit, although Sans insists you look good. Sans looks pretty good, too, although he sort of doesn’t look like himself in such a nice outfit. When he showed up at your place wearing a suit, you were nearly floored. It’s obvious he got it tailored, because it fits him really well. You can’t decide if you wish he’d dress up more often, or if you miss his usual, comfortable look.

You look out at the sea of people dancing or mingling in the middle of the room. You don’t know any of these people and you get the impression that none of them would know who you are, either. Sans tells you they’re mostly researchers or government officials, which only serves to make you feel more out of place. You’d been formally introduced to Alphys earlier, who was there with Undyne but looked like she might throw up at any moment, and seeing someone even more anxious than you helped you feel a little less awkward for a moment. But you didn’t even get the chance to really talk to her since she was quickly whisked away by some human robotics expert.

The fact that there’s press here certainly doesn’t help your anxiety - you can see them lingering around the edges of the large room, dressed to match the event dress code but given away by large cameras around their necks or recorders gripped in their hands. Most of them are here for the king’s speech, which will happen later in the evening, but you’ve caught one of them pointing their camera in your direction once or twice.

“I know,” Sans whispers back to you. “We’ve only got about an hour left and then we can bail.” He’s grinning, as he usually is in public, but it definitely looks more strained than usual. He’s had to rub elbows with a few important human scientists tonight, and you can tell he’s not enjoying it. His jokes have all been met with tepid, awkward smiles at best, and snide comments at worst.

“Ugh,” he grunts. “Quantum physicist at ten o’clock.” You look, and there’s a stern, older, balding gentleman wearing spectacles weaving through the crowd and heading over where you and Sans are loitering.

Sans does his best to give the guy a sincere greeting, and introduces you as his “partner.” That made your stomach squirm the first few times, but you’ve heard it so much now that it barely has an effect. Sans doesn’t even trip over the word like he did at the start of the night. The physicist’s name doesn’t even have a chance of making into your long term memory, so you don’t bother to try remembering it. You just smile and nod and say, “Nice to meet you.”

You’re immediately disqualified from further participation in the conversation as the physicist launches into questions about Sans’s research. The two of them make noises at each other for a while and you don’t try to understand any of it, until finally Sans mentions something that sounds familiar.

“I’d be further along with the paper if I could just get access to that particle accelerator you guys have,” he says, his grin a little crooked and his tone deceptively casual. He adds something else, something about how it’s “difficult” to study something-or-other without “the right tools. It’s like trying to hammer a nail with a wrench.”

The physicist makes a face like he’s looking at a child presenting him with a mud pie and he’s trying to be nice about turning it down. “Well,” he starts, and right away you don’t like the change in his voice. It’s condescending, infantilizing. You don’t know what the two of them are talking about, really, but you know the tone he’s using is the tone he should be using to explain things to dumb social media hacks like you, not smart scientists like Sans. “You have to understand, we can’t just let anyone have access to some of our most expensive machinery.”

Sans chuckles and the noise is incredibly unpleasant for some reason, which is weird, because you usually really like Sans’s laugh. “You make it sound like I’m just a random guy off the street, pal. I’m an established researcher. You’ve referenced some of my work in your articles.”

The physicist looks uncomfortable, his nose wrinkled. You wonder if he smelled something bad or if he just likes to make rude faces. “Part of the issue is you don’t have a single degree from an accredited institution, and even in monster records you haven’t been involved in academics at all within the last decade. You just came out of nowhere, and you’ve been a presence in human scientific records for barely a year.” The guy won’t even look at Sans anymore, and seems to be regretting coming over to chat. “It looks… odd,” he finishes.

The lights in Sans’s sockets are hazy. He looks frozen in place, just standing there, staring.

“But not odd enough that you won’t use his stuff in your articles?” you blurt out.

The physicist looks at you with surprise, like he forgot you were there. Maybe he did. Sans looks a little startled, too.

“Well,” the physicist says again, like he has something to add, but nothing else comes out of his mouth.

The three of you stare at each other uncomfortably for a moment. You wish you knew enough about the scientific community to further back Sans up, but you don’t. You’re fully out of your league here. The physicist eventually makes some excuse about seeing someone he knows on the other side of the room and scuttles off.

You look at Sans. He looks miserable. His plastered on grin is barely hanging on and he’s staring off at nothing.

You down what’s left in your glass of maybe-champagne. “Let’s go,” you say.

“We should stay until the king’s speech is over, at least,” Sans says. His voice sounds hollow.

“Screw the speech,” you tell him. “No one will notice if we slip out. And if they do, tell them I had horrible diarrhea and we had to leave immediately.”

Sans makes a choked noise. The lights in his sockets focus a little. “Where are we going? Home?”

You think for a moment. Something about this situation feels vaguely familiar - the academic nonsense, the play-acting at belonging among more educated people. It reminds you a little of college, of stupid networking events and writing scholarship applications where you pretend to be smarter than you are. You think about what you used to do in college if you or one of your friends were miserable late at night.

“Let’s go to Taco Bell,” you suggest. It's not like the two of you have eaten much all evening anyway, since you've been unable to identify what most of the hors d'oeuvres are.

“So you can get diarrhea and it’ll be less of a lie if I tell people that’s why we left?” he asks.

“Yes,” you say with mock seriousness, and he makes another choked noise. It sounds more like a laugh this time.

The two of you slip out of the room and as soon as you’re outside in the cool air, Sans takes your hand and the world falls away for a moment and then you’re at the Taco Bell three blocks away from your apartment.

You walk in confidently, Sans trailing behind you morosely. The teenager behind the counter looks only vaguely surprised to see two people in formal wear. You almost feel weird about it, but the building is deserted except for a scruffy looking guy who is pointedly avoiding looking at the two of you. You and Sans order nearly half the menu and sit towards the back of the restaurant.

You’re quiet for a little bit as Sans shoves half a chalupa into his mouth. His shoulders are slumped more than usual and the lights in his sockets are firmly downcast. You’ve never seen him look quite so defeated before.

“You okay?” you ask, already knowing the answer.

“I just feel stupid,” he says immediately. “It’s my own fault. I neglected my career for years, just gave up and dropped everything. Well, now it’s biting me in my non-existent ass. Of course people think it’s weird that I’m asking for access to advanced machinery. Of course they’re not going to give me free reign just because I’ve been a good little scientist for a year.”

You’re a little surprised - normally you have to wrangle him into talking about his feelings - but he’s pouring this out like he was waiting for an opportunity. Maybe this has been building up for a while.

“Why’d you quit?” you ask, cautiously. You don’t want him to spiral into a tirade of self-loathing, but it seems relevant to ask about it.

“It just felt pointless. _Everything_ felt pointless. So I stopped trying,” he says bitterly, and your gut twists a little because you understand what he means. You’ve been there. You’ve experienced not being able to see a future for yourself. “If not for Pap, I’d probably still be…” He doesn’t finish that thought.

“You can still build your reputation back up,” you say, changing the subject a little and trying to be optimistic on his behalf. “The fact that people at least trust your research, even if they’re not ready to let you have full access to the funding and materials you need, is a good sign, right?”

He shrugs. “I just… wish I hadn’t fucked it up in the first place.”

“I’m sorry, Sans,” you tell him. It sounds dumb, but there’s no good way to communicate what you really want to say. It’s complicated, that feeling of understanding, the sympathy that comes from knowing that level of hopelessness, of knowing how hard it is to get your life back on track.

“I’m better now,” he says quickly, brushing it off. The rest of the chalupa disappears behind his teeth. “I mean. Most days. Y’know.”

You do know. You nod.

“Sorry,” he says.

“What for?” you ask, genuinely confused.

“I’ve been a wet blanket all night,” he says. “We had to leave early.”

You roll your eyes. smiling. “Yeah, ‘cuz I would’ve had a blast otherwise, I’m sure.” You pick at the order of nachos for a second before you decide you don’t want them anymore and push the cardboard container over to Sans, who obediently starts obliterating them. It’s amusing to you how easy it is to get him to act as your personal garbage disposal. “I only went because you needed a date, you goof.”

He snorts. Something in his expression changes and halfway through decimating the nachos he stops and looks up at you with such gentle fondness that, for a moment, you feel like you’re the main characters of a Hallmark romance movie and not  just two chucklefucks wearing black tie attire in a Taco Bell.

You turn away, suddenly unable to look at him, grinning as your face heats up.

“Thanks,” he says, quietly.

“What for?” you ask again while staring out the window.

“Understanding,” he says.

You don’t know what to say to that, so instead you ask, “You wanna go back to my place after this and watch The Grinch, the live action one with Jim Carrey?”

“Yeah,” he says, grinning happily for the first time all night while he makes an entire crunchwrap disappear.


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is the one where u fuck sans while watching jim carrey's how the grinch stole christmas  
> if you're not interested in smut, you could probably just skip this one! it's sex stuff all the way down babey!

Sans isn’t surprised that you understand what it’s like to give up.

Neither of you had brought up the topic of mental health before, but he sees the red flags in some of your mannerisms. He knows them because he can recognize them in himself, knows because it’s stuff that Papyrus would call attention to if he was getting especially bad.

He first guessed you had problems like his when he visited you one day and your kitchen was a bit of a mess and there were several days of unwashed dishes in the sink. You’d seemed embarrassed by it, and you’d had plenty of time to clean that day, but you still hadn’t taken care of it. He knows that feeling well - needing to do something but not doing it because you can’t muster up the ability to care enough to get it done, but still caring just enough to feel some shame if it’s pointed out.

So he isn’t surprised. But it makes him feel less alone to know for sure that you understand.

He ponders this while he changes out of his suit in your bathroom. He’d started leaving some comfortable clothes at your apartment a while ago, because going out on a date and then lounging on your couch afterwards was pretty standard procedure for the two of you and he’s too lazy to shortcut back to his place all the time.

Then he stops and his train of thought comes to a crashing halt because he remembers that you’ll be taking your bra off soon. He stands very still, half dressed, close to the door between the bathroom and bedroom, listening.

This is easily one of the creepiest things he’s ever done, and he feels guilty even as he does it. Listening to you change your clothes in the other room so he can hear the gentle sigh you let out when you take your bra off? That’s definitely some full blown pervert shit.

But he can’t help himself.

You’d started not wearing your bra while the two of you got comfy after that night when he’d come over to your place at 1 AM and made a total fool of himself. He guesses you weren’t wearing a bra that night but he hadn’t noticed at the time because he was so hazy and out of his mind and he’s only sort of familiar with the concept of a bra anyway. Monsters don’t nurse their young like mammals do, so it’s not like they’ve got breasts, only varying sizes of fat deposits, and very rarely does a monster have anything large enough to require support.

Anyway, he supposes after that night, some sort of mental boundary had been broken and now you feel comfortable enough to be around him without a bra on. The first time he’d heard you take it off and make that little sigh, he’d blurted out, loudly, “What was that?” and you’d laughed and explained from the other room that it feels good when you finally get to take off your bra at the end of the day.

He doesn’t really get it, but he knows he likes that sound.

He can hear the telltale noise of the little plastic  hooks on the back of the bra scraping against each other and he tenses, clutching his shirt in his hands and waiting. A moment later and you make the sound, that soft, satisfied, relaxed sigh, and he feels the tension leave his body as he lets out a quick sigh himself. His soul hums deep within him. He wishes he had a recording of you making that noise so he could play it back, over and over. He doesn’t know why he’s so obsessed with it.

He stops that line of thinking, angrily pulling the shirt over his head. He _does_ know. He can’t keep lying to himself. There’s really no point in denying it anymore.

It’s because he’s sexually attracted to you.

Ugh. Man, he’s a creep, listening to you change your clothes because it _turns him on_.

He must be some kind of deviant, since this is what gets him going. He still can’t watch more than a couple minutes of any porn video online without feeling weird, but listening to you taking off your bra is just fine apparently.

You just sound so… comfortable. It’s not like the noises humans make in porn, all forced and sort of painful sounding. Every once and a while he can find a video where the humans make sounds that at least vaguely resemble your soft sigh, and he’ll listen to the sounds through his headphones and close his eyes and imagine you’re the one making those noises and he’s _making you_ make those noises.

Which is definitely something a fucking _pervert_ would do.

He finishes changing and wads up his suit into a ball, mashing it into a compact shape with his bony hands in an attempt to relieve some frustration. He has to stop thinking about this. He’s about to go cuddle with you and he _loves_ cuddling with you and he _really_ doesn’t want to make it weird by being a horny little freak.

* * *

 

You love cuddling with Sans.

You’d think cuddling a skeleton would be uncomfortable - and it can be if he’s not careful about where his elbows or knees are poking - but he makes it work.

The two of you are about halfway through How The Grinch Stole Christmas and somehow you’ve ended up lying down on the couch, with Sans halfway on top of you and his arms around your middle. He seems to really like this position, since a lot of your cuddle sessions end up like this. Maybe because it gives him easy access to the hem of your shirt while he rests his head on your chest. His hands never stray to areas more intimate than your waist or your back, but he seems to enjoy the feeling of your warm skin on his bones. He’s currently rubbing repetitive little circles into your hip with his thumb as he nuzzles his face a little closer to your neck.

On the TV, Jim Carrey in his Grinch costume gets force fed large quantities of pudding as part of a montage. “Someone on the film crew got their fetish in the movie,” you comment.

Sans snorts loudly.

The scene cuts away, but then returns to the Grinch eating pudding barely a few seconds later. “Oh my God, dude,” you mutter, stifling a laugh. It cuts away again, and then back to the force feeding a _third_ time, and you can’t hold in your giggles anymore.

You hear Sans’s rumbling chuckle. “I’m starting to think half the staff on this movie just thinks the Grinch is hot.”

You bark out a loud laugh. “I mean, did you see his ass?” you say. “They, like, made sure you can see his entire ass crack.”

You can feel Sans shifting his head to look up at you. “Is that a common sexy spot for humans? The ass crack, specifically?” he asks, amused.

“Not really, but force feeding isn’t a common fetish, and we’ve got that goin’ on.”

“There’s also the whole subplot about how the hottest Who in Whoville has it bad for the Grinch,” Sans says, wrapping his bony arms around you a little tighter.

“I’d totally forgotten this movie has a romance element,” you tell him. “I’d fucking repressed it. My brain didn’t want to remember that Martha May or whoever is wet for the Grinch.”

“I’m so excited to see how that gets resolved,” Sans says, and he genuinely does sound kind of psyched. “Will she choose the mayor, who, as far as I can tell, has no redeeming qualities besides being the mayor? Or will she choose the Grinch, who _also_ has no redeeming qualities?”

“The Grinch owns a mountain and has super strength,” you argue. “The choice is obvious.”

“He also smells like raw sewage,” Sans retorts. He turns his head a little, burying his face in your chest as much as possible while still being able to peek at the TV screen. “And his mountain is half landfill. He doesn’t even own it, he’s just been squatting there.”

“Yeah, but she _really_ likes how strong he is. Every time he lifts literally anything, it cuts to her, like, having a case of the vapors over it.”

Sans bursts into laughter. He very rarely outright laughs - he tends to chuckle or snort at most. You really like his laugh, though. When he really gets into it, the pitch waivers and it sounds really goofy. It’s cute.

“This movie is incredible,” he says. He shifts, and one of his legs, which has been resting between yours, slides against your upper thigh. You try to ignore the way your heartbeat stutters at that, but he follows it up by moving his hand further up your shirt, up to your ribs, which is a little more intimate than he usually gets.

Stop it, you tell yourself. You’re not getting horny while watching the fucking Grinch.

“It’s genuinely kind of a masterpiece,” you agree, sincerely.

He’s quiet after that, probably trying to think of a Grinch-themed pun. Unfortunately, this allows you to let your gaze slide away from the TV, tune out the sound of Jim Carrey saying wacky shit, and instead focus on Sans’s hands on your body. His hand shifts again, and Jesus Christ, he’s like two inches away from cupping your chest. You wonder if something happened tonight that’s making him especially bold, or if he’s just zoned out and not paying attention to what he’s doing.

You’ve been patient about the sex issue. You don’t mind, really - you’d meant it when you said it was fine if he wasn’t ready. It’s fine if he’s _never_ ready. But having his hand inches away from your bare chest is a little maddening.

Maybe you should’ve worn your bra. It’s never been a problem before, but Sans has also never been quite this handsy.

Sans grunts and shifts again, moving his whole body and lifting off the couch a little as he squirms into a slightly more comfortable position. He rests his weight on you for a moment as he adjusts, his hand applying pressure to your ribcage in an uncomfortable way.

You make a noise in protest, a sort of “oof,” and he mumbles an apology, sounding a little spaced out - he’s clearly focused on the movie - and moves his hand.

Right up underneath your breast.

You suck in a breath involuntarily. He’s not outright grabbing your tit or anything, but his thumb and index finger are pressed right up against the swell of your chest, cupping the underside of your breast. He freezes and looks down at you, his sockets wide and slightly alarmed. Fuck, he’s practically on top of you, you’ve just realized that. You blink up at him and dimly realize your mouth is pressed into a hard line, so you probably look totally freaked out. You don’t want him to think this is a big deal or something - it’s not, you’re just cuddling, some slip ups are bound to happen sometimes - so you force yourself to take a steady breath and relax your lips.

He keeps staring down at you and his face is kind of blue and he’s not pulling away, which is weird, because normally he jerks away immediately when he touches something he knows is a “private” area. Instead, he leans in, awkwardly, stopping and pulling back minutely for a second like he’s not sure what he’s doing before pressing his teeth to your cheek. His hand on your chest twitches, his fingers curling a little.

You suddenly feel very, very warm. You can’t seem to get your breathing to stay calm anymore and it keeps hitching. Sans nuzzles his face against yours and his other arm moves, sliding underneath your neck.

“Wh…” you start, dumbly, but you stop yourself because you can’t think of anything to say. You clutch at Sans’s shirt. There’s a strange, electric energy prickling your skin as Sans moves his face to your neck, maintaining contact with his teeth pressed against you.

“Sorry,” he says, quietly. His voice is low and rumbling. “Can I…”

He doesn’t finish his sentence. You have no clue what he’s asking. Can he _what_? Touch you? Does he want to?

His fingers twitch again. You suddenly can’t remember the last time you moved and you squirm, arching your back and repositioning your legs a little. This is so fucking tense for no reason, oh my God, you’ve never been so on edge about someone just touching your fucking boob before.

“Please just do _something_. You’re killin’ me here, Sans,” you joke, your voice shaky.

Sans blows out a hot breath through his nasal passage and he moves his hand. His bony fingers brush over your nipple. You breathe in sharply and let out a soft noise in spite of yourself, and Sans hums in response and _nips_ at your fucking neck.

He doesn’t outright bite you, it’s more like he scrapes his teeth against your skin, but your reaction is immediate. You tilt your head back, exposing your neck to him so that he can get a better angle. His fingertips are cautiously prodding your nipple, clearly unsure what to do with it. You want to grab his hand and show him what you like, but you’re not sure if you should. Part of you feels like you should just let him figure it out on his own.

His leg between your legs moves suddenly, his knee jerking up and pressing directly against your crotch. Again, your reaction is immediate - you roll your hips, pressing your cunt against the hard surface. You let out an embarrassingly needy moan.

Sans just puffs another hot breath against your neck. You wish he’d react more. You have no idea how into this he is. You’re a little mortified about how turned on you are when he’s barely even done anything, but in your defense, you’ve been ready to experiment with Sans for a while now.

You’d demand he hurry up and touch you and make you cum, but you don’t want to pressure him if he needs to take this slow.

His fingers leave your nipple, brushing over the side of your breast and back down towards your ribs when he pauses. He presses his fingers against your skin with a little more intention, skirting around the perimeter of your chest. He’s feeling something, but you can’t figure out what it is. You can feel his brow furrowing against your neck before he suddenly pulls away, looking down at your chest, at his hand moving under your shirt.

“What _is_ that?” he says, curiously.

You look down, too. “What’s what?”

“That little ridge,” he says, like it’s obvious. He pulls his other arm out from under your neck and repositions himself so that he’s sort of straddling your thigh, his coxyyx digging into your skin a little and his hand skirting around to your side, under your arm and towards your back.

“Um,” you say, a little confused. “You can take my shirt off if you want.”

He glances up at your face, looking a little surprised, before pulling up your shirt. He stops before he exposes your chest and seems to be bracing himself for a moment, then pulls his hands back and looks away from you.

“Can you do it?” he asks, and it’s clear he feels embarrassed about it for some reason.

“Oh, sure,” you say, unceremoniously yanking the fabric over your head and letting it fall to floor. You rest your hands at your side as Sans stares down at you, his brow furrowed again, which makes you feel a little awkward. He hesitates before touching your skin, again skirting around your chest.

“What are these marks?” he asks, and you look down again. He’s tracing the lines that your bra left behind - semi circles around your breasts from the underwire, a ridge circling around your back from the strap.

“Oh!” you exclaim, a little amused that he’s so interested in it. “Those are from my bra. The material digs into my skin a little sometimes and leaves marks. That’s why it feels nice when I get to take it off.”

“Does it hurt?” he asks, genuinely concerned.

“Nah. I mean, it can be uncomfortable, but it’s not bad unless it’s an ill-fitting bra.”

“Do they go away?”

“After a little while.”

Sans hums and nods. He stops tracing the marks and brushes his fingers over your nipple again, which is rapidly hardening. He leans in, watching, fascinated. He amuses himself with circling it with his thumb for a moment.

He seems a lot more relaxed, his shoulders slumping naturally and his expression decidedly less tense. He looks up at your face.

You think he’s about to say something serious and meaningful, but instead he says, “Can we pause the movie? I keep hearing Jim Carrey make goofy noises.”

You make an unattractive sound, laughing and reach for the remote sitting on the coffee table as Sans watches you carefully and brushes his hand down your body. You hit pause just as he’s sliding his hand down your body and towards the hem of your pajama pants.

He keeps watching you as he slides his hand into your underwear. His fingers are as close to your pussy as they could possibly be without actually touching it. The lights in his sockets are hazy.

“I’m not… misinterpreting this, am I?” he asks, his voice tinged with worry. “I don’t want to take advantage of you.”

You have to fight the urge to laugh again. “Sans, seriously? You have to know by now that I want this.”

He grins. It’s lazy, slow, unfocused. Something about his expression looks almost relieved. “I have… a vague idea of what to do,” he says, hesitantly. “You’re going to have to coach me a little.”

“Should I touch you, too? It seems unfair…” you start, reaching for his chest, but the minute your hand brushes over his ribs, he jerks away like he’s been shocked, even though there’s a layer of fabric between your hand and his bones.

“No,” he says, quickly, looking away. “Sorry - I’m just -”

“It’s okay -”

“It’s too much, when you get close to my...” He sounds really uncomfortable talking about this. “I’m not - I don’t want to do that yet. This is… this is something I can do.”

You frown. “I just don’t really get what you’re getting out of this if you don’t want me to touch you. I mean, I’m not complaining, if this is what you want, but…”

“I’ve thought about this,” he says, his voice suddenly very quiet. He leans down and nuzzles your neck, and you feel that electricity on your skin again, prickling you gently. “I want - I want you to feel good. I want to be the one to do it.” He pauses. “You could say I’ve been wanting to put a second skeleton inside you for a while.”

You snort. “Sans, for fuck’s sake...”

“Heh. Oh, it’s for fuck’s sake, alright,” he jokes. He’s grinning as he scrapes his teeth against your neck again.

You spread your legs a little and his hand finally moves lower, his fingers sliding easily between your lips. He makes a funny, startled noise, almost a yelp, and immediately follows it up with, “Sorry. Um, I wasn’t expecting…” He pauses, starts his sentence over. “You’re… wet.”

The thought occurs to you that you don’t really know _exactly_ how familiar Sans is with human sex. You probably should’ve had a conversation about that before now. Is he surprised because he didn’t know that was something that happens with vaginas, or..?

“That’s… good,” he adds, awkwardly, and you let out the breath you’d been holding. Okay, you don’t have to explain how vaginas work.

He slides his fingers down and then back up, experimentally, brushing against your clit as he does it. You make a soft noise and he repeats the movement. He adjusts his position on top of you, pulling back to look at your face. His sockets are in the shape of half-circles and his cheekbones are bright blue.

“It’s hot,” he says, glancing down before tugging gently at the waistband of your pajama pants. You don’t stop him, and he yanks both your pants and panties down around your knees. He looks like he’s not really sure what to do with himself as he looks at you, at your cunt, at his hand _touching_ your cunt. “Is it supposed to be this hot? You’re okay, right?”

You try not to laugh. You hadn’t considered before that certain parts of your body being warmer than the rest might seem concerning to a different species, but come to think of it, pretty much all of Sans’s body feels the same temperature when you touch it. “I’m fine. It’s just like that,” you tell him.

He nods absently. His fingers start prodding at you, feeling for your entrance. He looks strangely amused when one of his fingers slips inside you, just barely. “Fuck, it’s like you’re a fire elemental,” he says as he cautiously, gently presses inside you. Something in his mood shifts, the lights in his sockets focusing a little. You suddenly feel a little like a science experiment with him staring at you so openly. “There’s a lot of resistance. It doesn’t hurt?”

“No - sorry, it’s partially because I’m a little nervous, so the muscles are probably all tense,” you babble, and you take a deep, shaky breath, trying to relax.

His browbone creases. “Uh, I’m probably not really helping with that. Sorry.” He looks so sincerely sympathetic, his eyelights flicking around in little movements within his sockets as he examines your face. “This - I’m not - I mean, me fumbling around in your guts is probably a bit of a mood killer.”

You erupt into laughter. Your pussy contracts as you laugh, forcing Sans’s fingers out of you, and he looks down, slightly alarmed. “In my _guts_?!” you exclaim.

“Shit, it pushed me out, are you okay?” he asks, his expression slowly graduating into full blown panic.

You feel bad, but you’re still giggling. “I’m _fine_ ,” you tell him, emphatically. “Honestly, Sans, I’m not going to break and I’ll just tell you if you do something that doesn’t feel good. And _please_ don’t call it my _guts_ again, oh my _God_.”

Oh, no, he looks really embarrassed now. He’s grinning crookedly and looking away and his browbone is all bent out of shape. You stifle what’s left of your laughter.

“Heh, I’m really blowing this, huh?” he says, and oh, now you feel _really_ bad.

“Oh, Sans, no, it’s fine, really,” you assure him, reaching up to cup his bony cheeks in your hands.

“I’m not - ‘sexy’ isn’t exactly my forte even when I actually know what I’m doing,” he says, quietly.

You sit up, and he pulls his hand away from your cunt, holding it away from his body since it’s got your fluids all over it now. Without thinking about it, you grab his wrist, bring his hand to your mouth, and lick off the worst of it, your tongue running across the bumpy ridges of his phalanges.

You pull away and realize, oops, _eating your own fluids probably comes off as a pretty weird thing to do if you if you’re not familiar with just-barely-beyond-vanilla sex._

You look at Sans, and his mouth is agape and his sockets wide. You wince.

“I promise that would’ve been at least slightly less freaky if you were into human sex,” you tell him.

“Uhhh,” he says. “You ate it. Your - that. It came out of you and you _licked_ it right off me.”

Ew, God, it makes you feel like a gross weirdo when he says it. Are you a gross weirdo?

“Some of my previous partners were into that, fingering me and then having me clean them off,” you tell him, trying to explain yourself. “I wasn’t thinking.”

“Right. Okay,” he says, distantly, incredulously.

“I’m so sorry,” you say.

“Humans use their mouths on each other sometimes,” he says, calming down a little. “I mean, if I think about it, of course you wouldn’t be squeamish about… that.”

“Right,” you agree.

He pulls his hand away from you and wipes it on his shirt.

You pointedly ignore that. “I think you’re sexy,” you tell him, returning to the topic from before.

He looks even more incredulous than before.

“I mean, I want to do this with you. I wouldn’t if i found you unattractive,” you add.

“You have to understand that I find that pretty difficult to believe,” he says, and that crooked grin is back. “I’m all skin and bones, sans the skin. Heh.”

You cup his face again, lean in, and start trailing soft kisses across his cheek.

“Please,” you say, quietly, your lips brushing against bone. “Can I touch you?”

He doesn’t answer right away. “Okay,” he says. “Just… don’t touch the inside of my ribcage. Not yet.”

“Okay,” you agree, moving your hands to his pelvis and dipping your head and pressing a kiss to the bones of his neck. He makes a noise, a gasp that turns into low, rumbling hum. His head lolls to the side.

You have no clue what feels good for him, but his reaction is encouraging. your thumbs brush over the iliac arches of his pelvis, dragging the fabric of his shorts. You dart your tongue out, pressing it against his neckbones.

He makes a strangled noise and jolts, but it seems like it was an involuntary movement because he doesn’t move away. You still hear a humming sound buzzing in your ears, but it’s coming from within his chest now.

Would Sans be into talking dirty? You consider this while you run your tongue up his neck. He might be, he certainly likes dirty jokes well enough.

“Sans,” you whisper, reaching up to brush your fingers over his ribs. “Can we try again? It turns me on when you touch me. Please.”

Sans actually shudders and his hands are on your shoulders, prompting you to lay back down. You pull away from him and get comfortable, but you keep your hand on his chest this time. His hand is back at your cunt, the lights in his sockets so unfocused and hazy that they almost look empty.

You whimper as he finds your entrance again and pushes two fingers inside of you. He stops before he even reaches his second knuckle, hesitating, afraid of how much pressure he has to apply to stretch you open.

“Does it feel - I mean, is it -” he stammers.

You respond by bucking your hips, trying to force his fingers further inside you. “More. Please, Sans… I wanna cum around your fingers.”

His gaze snaps to your face, his sockets wide with surprise. He forces his fingers inside, burying them fully inside you, and you moan, rolling your hips against his hand.

“Fuck,” he swears, quietly.

You feel yourself clench around him. God, that’s nice. You wish he’d add a third finger and fingerfuck you hard, but you’re wary of asking him to be rough with you. From the way he talks about porn, he doesn’t seem to be interested in rough sex at all.

He pumps his fingers, pulling out slowly and pressing back inside you, and you can feel the bumps of his joints. Without meaning to, you hook the fingers of your hand on his chest, grabbing his ribs through the fabric. He makes a low rumbling noise, almost a growl. You realize belatedly that this probably counts as touching the inside of his ribcage and yank your hand away.

“Sorry,” you mumble, a little breathless.

Sans looks at you, his sockets lidded. The pace of his fingers is speeding up a little. “No,” he says, “it’s okay.” He takes your hand with his free one and brings it back to his chest.

You grab at his ribs again, gently, your fingers curling inside of him. Strangely, you feel a pressure against your fingertips, something pulsing softly - his magic, maybe? Something akin to a human’s pulse?

“I wanna watch you cum,” he blurts out. “I just…. want to know what it looks like.”

You moan, bucking your hips, watching him watch you.

“Is there something else I should be doing?” he asks, his voice low and hushed. “Is this enough for you to..?”

“My clit,” you manage to say, and he brings his other hand to your abdomen so he can brush his thumb against the nub above your entrance.

He’s not applying enough pressure though, so you put your hand on top of his and use your fingers to press his thumb harder against your clit, guiding him into rolling it in a circular motion. You pull your hand away when he’s got the hang of it and grip the couch cushion instead.

“You look really good like this,” he says. He’s completely fixated on you, too enthralled in watching you to be insecure. “Under me. Vulnerable. Trusting me to do this.”

 _Jesus Christ!_ Vulnerable!? Your cunt clenches and you moan loudly, maybe a little too loud. You didn’t think he’d touch any kind of reference to power dynamics with a ten foot pole.

“Did you like that?” he asks, tilting his head a little. You feel like an experiment again. You nod, bobbing your head dumbly.

He hesitates. The pressure inside his ribcage increases, the pulse thrumming against your fingertips. His fingers slam inside of you - he’s not focusing, not worrying about hurting you, just mindlessly fingerfucking you.

“This is the most vulnerable a human could be, isn’t it?” He’s watching your face intently. “Under someone else with part of them literally inside their body. Exposed.” He pulls his thumb away from your clit - what the hell! You roll your hips desperately, whimpering, and he just _watches_  and you have to close your eyes, unable to look at him anymore. Bizarrely, though, his voice is soft in spite of what he’s saying. “Look at you… you barely even have control of your body right now. Because of what I’m doing.” His fingers are fucking you hard, and they must be covered in your wetness because you’ve just realized every thrust makes a sloppy, wet noise.

“Oh - oh, shit, Sans,” you whimper, rolling your hips to meet his hand as he thrusts his fingers inside of you.

“You sound so good,” Sans sighs, pumping his fingers faster. Distantly, you can hear something humming. You open your eyes and the room is blue, so blue. “This is - you’re perfect. I can feel you, fuck, you’re so warm…” He’s babbling now, breathing heavily through his nasal passage. His free arm is wrapped around you, clutching your shirt, and his sternum is pressed against your chest. “Please - louder. The noises you make are - yeah, like that… I want - I want you to be mine, I want…”

You release a strangled cry, bucking your hips and biting down hard on your lower lip as you feel your cunt convulse around his fingers. He keeps thrusting, but you grab his hand, keeping it pressed against you so you can grind your clit against his bumpy palm while his fingers scissor inside of you, pressing back against the clench of your pussy. You’re dimly aware of him groaning as you ride out your orgasm on his hand.

You go slack once it’s over, your eyes closed as you catch your breath. Sans pulls his hand away.

“Was that good?” he asks, insecurity creeping back into his tone now that he has nothing to focus on.

“God, yeah,” you say, sincerely. You open your eyes and look up at him.

He’s still staring at you intently, and you’d feel self-conscious, but he looks so damn affectionate. He’s grinning lazily, happily.

“I feel kind of dumb asking this,” you start, propping yourself up on your elbows, “but was that, like, fun for you? Even though you didn’t get off?”

He looks away, embarrassed suddenly. “Uh. I think I got more out of that than you realize.” He pauses. “Sorry about that weird shit I said towards the end.”

You try to remember if he said anything especially strange and come up blank. “What weird shit?”

“The, uh, stuff about you being vulnerable,” he says. “That’s a big thing with monsters, vulnerability. I didn’t realize you’d have so many involuntary movements and be so… incapacitated isn’t the right word, but…” His grin looks really nervous, the corners twitching. “Uh, I just… I guess you could call it a kink.” He visibly cringes.

“Ohh,” you say, nodding. “Well, no worries, I thought it was hot.” He looks at you, his face slack, and you can’t tell what he’s thinking. There’s the pressing issue of the sticky mess between your legs, though, and he’s still straddling your thigh. “Hey. I gotta go clean up.”

“Oh, right,” he says, scrambling to get off you. You roll off the couch and head to the bathroom.

“Hey,” he calls from the living room as you wipe yourself clean. “We’re still finishing the movie, right?”

“Duh. I mean, you were so excited to find out whether what’s-her-face bones down with the Grinch or not, and I would never deprive you of that,” you call back, and he laughs.


End file.
